


chubby bucky ficlet masterpost

by sublime_jumbles



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Chubby Kink, Fluff, M/M, Weight Gain, Weight Issues, chubby!kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-01-26 00:11:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 22,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1667597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sublime_jumbles/pseuds/sublime_jumbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a compilation of the prompted chubby!bucky ficlets i've written over at <a>alittlepudge-neverhurtnobody.tumblr.com</a>. i apologize in advance for the chapter titles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. summertime, and the livin' is ... suddenly not as easy for steve rogers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: HI OH GEEZ I DONT KNOW IF YOU'RE STILL TAKING REQUESTS FOR A PROMPT THING, BUT LITERALLY ANY CHUBBY!BUCKY IS APPRECIATED AND WORSHIPPED I LOVE YOU
> 
> (if you're a prompter and you'd like me to link to your blog/AO3, just let me know!)

Steve expects Bucky to swim with a shirt on, like most of the other campers, like Steve does himself sometimes, to keep the attention off his chiseled torso. But Bucky isn’t shy the way Steve is, and he bares his top half with an abandon Steve envies from his perch at the edge of the pool. He’s lifeguarding, technically, but he hates sitting above everyone else, so far removed from what’s happening. Plus, he reasons, it’s easier to circumvent an emergency if he’s already got his legs in the pool.

He watches Bucky survey the deep end of the pool, preparing for a dive, and finds himself cataloging the way Bucky’s stomach rounds out over the waistband of his swim trunks. His skin is tan against the bright red and white of the fabric, the roll of his belly crowning his hips, and Steve tries not to stare.

Bucky dives, sure and clean and flawless. Steve watches him navigate through the water around other campers, cutting through the water with strong, deft strokes. He surfaces near Steve’s feet, and Steve jumps a little with the splash, and Bucky grins.

"Hey, you," he says, flicking water at Steve. "What are you doing all on your lonesome over here?"

"Guarding your life," says Steve, reaching down to cup a handful of water and tossing it back at him. "Though it doesn’t look like you need it."

Bucky hauls himself out of the water and onto the cement beside Steve. His thighs - which Steve has spent altogether too much time observing, trying to discern their exact shape and size beneath Bucky’s jeans and shorts - spread against the concrete in his spangled swim trunks. Wider than Steve’s, certainly, but then Bucky’s got bigger hips, too. Even without the extra chub, Steve guesses, Bucky’s build would be stockier than his own.

"What do you mean?" Bucky asks, and Steve halts his examination.

"You looked pretty comfortable in there," he replies. He glances at Bucky’s arms and shoulders - they look strong, solid, muscular. "Are you a swimmer?"

"Used to be," says Bucky, stretching his arms over his head. "In high school. Silver medal in the championship senior year."

"Damn," says Steve. "Why didn’t you continue?"

"Don’t think Shield U’s got a swim team," he says, with an easy grin. "Plus, this thing makes it a little hard." He grabs a handful of his stomach and jostles it. The air leaves Steve’s lungs, and he swallows hard.

"I totally overdid it this year," Bucky continues, as Steve tries to tear his eyes away from Bucky’s settling belly. "It’s so easy to just lose track, you know? Like you think, _Okay, I ate too much this weekend but if I go to the gym tomorrow it’ll be fine_ , but you never really get around to going to the gym, and then suddenly …” He pinches the swell of pudge above his right hip. “Voilá, you’ve gained thirty-four pounds and none of your pants fit and your parents ship you off to fat camp, and you’re just like, _All I did was eat a bunch of cheeseburgers_.”

Steve is suddenly overtaken by an image of Bucky stuffing himself with cheeseburgers in his dorm room, his belly bloated and full. He swallows again and dips his fingers into the cool water to center himself. He should not be thinking about Bucky eating until he’s too full to move, and he _definitely_ shouldn’t be aroused by it.

Bucky bends to trail his fingers through the water, too, his stomach doubling over as he leans forward. He flips the water at Steve, who flinches, jerked back to reality. 

"You don’t seem to mind it," he says, gesturing. "I mean - it sounds like you’re not too fazed by it."

"By what?" asks Bucky, sitting up. "This?" He slaps the side of his stomach and Steve closes his eyes to avoid watching it ripple. "Nah. I mean, the pants-not-fitting is kinda inconvenient, but other than that, I mean, it’s just how it goes. I eat whatever I want, and I’m not getting laid any less, so …" He laughs, and Steve does, too, after a moment, ignoring the nagging itch in his own gut. "I don’t think I’m too out of shape, you know, I get winded a little more easily but I can still run and hike and shit." He leans back to rest his weight on his hands. "It’s not a bad deal, all things considered. It beats the hell out of dieting."

"Yeah, I bet," says Steve. Almost self-consciously, he runs a hand over the tight ridges of his own torso. Bucky snorts out a little laugh.

"Probably never been a problem for you, huh?"

Steve shrugs, feeling himself blush. He knows he’s luckier than most - good metabolism, good genes, good natural athleticism, good distribution of weight on his tall frame. It doesn’t feel fair, exactly, to look like this so effortlessly.

"Not exactly," he says softly, and Bucky smiles. His blue eyes crinkle up, and his cheeks - full, a little stubbly, and pink from the sun - push up into twin apples, and the hint of pudge under his chin makes itself a bit more noticeable. 

"Next semester," he says, "we gotta hang out more. I’d be more than happy to work on my beer belly with you."

Steve almost chokes. “Don’t get your hopes up,” he manages after a moment. “Nothing sticks on me. I’ve tried.”

Bucky shrugs, grin still in place. “At the rate I’m going,” he says, “I’ll probably absorb your share of the calories just by looking at them, so you’ll be golden.”

"Well, in that case," says Steve, cracking a smile of his own, "yeah, I’ll take you up on that offer."


	2. button-downs and dumplings and beer, oh my

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: How about something where Steve has trouble keeping his hands off Bucky at a team dinner, because he slightly misjudged the size of either his shirt or his belly, so it's really tight, and getting tighter the more he eats...

Their cab is halfway to Stark Tower when Steve asks, “Did you put one of my shirts on by accident, Buck?”

Bucky looks down, peers between the unzipped halves of his leather jacket at his light blue button-down. “No?”

"Are you sure?" says Steve, leaning over to examine it better, and Bucky pushes him away playfully.

"I’m sure," he says. "You bought me this one, remember? We went to group with Sam and then you made me go shopping."

"Okay, okay," says Steve, holding up his hands. "I believe you. It just looks a little snug, is all."

"Oh?" says Bucky, eyebrows going up. "Oh, yeah?" He slips a hand out of his jacket pocket and pinches a handful from the side of his belly. "Do you think so?"

Steve draws in a sharp breath. “A little bit, yeah.”

Bucky shrugs. “It’s been a month or two since we bought it, huh? Might’ve put on a few since then.” 

Steve swallows hard. He’s watched Bucky spend the better part of the past year acclimating himself to the twenty-first century, to human life, and Bucky’s spent the better part of the process snacking. He’s enthralled by food that isn’t boiled, fascinated by the plethora of ethnic foods available in the city. He collects the takeout menus delivery boys slip underneath their apartment door, and Steve thinks he’d have systematically worked his way through them all by now if Steve hadn’t mandated a two-nights-a-week takeout rule.

Bucky watches him, nods smugly. “You hungry?” he asks, splaying a hand over his belly. “I’m hungry.”

They’re the last to arrive; the rest of the gang is there already, save for Sam, who’s attending the fiftieth birthday party of someone from group, back in DC. Natasha and Clint are tangled in one armchair, despite the wealth of furniture in Tony’s obscenely spacious living room; Bruce and Tony are standing with their elbows propped against the baby grand the corner, drinks in hand; Pepper and Maria are gesturing with slim wineglasses, engaged in deep conversation by the row of tall windows; and Thor is fiddling with some sleek, glowing device that Steve, though unfamiliar with Tony’s many gadgets and electronics, is almost positive he should not be fiddling with. 

"Nice of you to show up," Tony greets them. "But I guess those Model Ts don’t really hold up in modern traffic, do they?"

"Wrong decade," says Steve, rolling his eyes. Natasha, across the room, catches his glance and quirks her lips into a smile. At least her cracks about his old age are always historically accurate.

"Whatever," says Tony, shrugging, raising a fist and proffering it to Bucky. "Hey, Tin Man. Everything shiny with you?"

Bucky bumps his left fist against Tony’s - a little too hard, Steve thinks, watching Tony wince. Bucky hasn’t quite figured out his own strength yet - not with his arm, and not with the rest of him. He’s fond of waking Steve up by pouncing on his sleeping form, like he used to do when they were younger, and somehow it doesn’t seem any less dangerous now than it did when Steve weighed ninety-five pounds. 

Bucky throws that weight against Steve’s hip now - considerably more than ninety-five pounds, probably a little over one ninety-five by now if Steve’s being honest - trying to knock him off balance, but Steve grabs him around the waist, grounding him with a surreptitious squeeze beneath his leather jacket. Bucky’s eyes go wide for a moment, and then he clears his throat, shooting a sly look at Steve. “Everything’s shiny,” he says, a line from one of the TV series Tony got him hooked on. _Like the old Westerns they used to play at the Paramount_ , he described it to Steve afterward, _but in_ space.

"Make yourselves comfortable," says Tony. "Food should be here any second now - we ordered out Chinese, hope that jives for you oldsters."

Bucky perks right up, and a swell of affection warms Steve’s chest. One of the things he missed most about Bucky was his easy smile, the way something as simple as a double-feature movie or a fresh apple pie or a pick-up baseball game could trigger that grin.

They nestle into the couch beside Natasha and Clint’s armchair and chat about the latter’s recent mission to Crimea - “Technically classified,” says Tasha, with a little eye roll, “but you know Fox is gonna get all the details wrong anyway” - and Bucky’s ongoing foray into the James Bond movies, on Clint’s recommendation. Bruce drifts over to discuss a newly minted vaccine program with Steve, and startles and flushes when something buzzes and sparks in Thor’s hands.

"Careful over there, Zeus," calls Tony, strolling back in with several large paper bags gathered in his arms. "I just finished repairing all the damage your brother caused on his last weekend with you, I don’t need you causing any more." He deposits the bags on one of the few coffee tables, along with a stack of plates, and Thor hands him the device, which is now smoking gently.

"Trade you," says Tony, peering into one of the paper bags and giving it to him. "This one’s all yours. Knock yourself out."

Clint and Bucky are already rummaging through the rest of the bags, setting up white cartons on the other coffee tables and claiming dishes for themselves. Natasha swats Bucky’s human hand away from a container of kung pao chicken. “Don’t you dare,” she says, and Bucky cracks a smile.

When he finally sits back on Steve’s right, he’s loaded two plates with fried rice, beef and broccoli, egg rolls, dumplings, lo mein, crab rangoons, and several items Steve can’t even identify. He eyes both plates, then lets his gaze drift to the buttons on Bucky’s shirt, already pulled snug by his burgeoning belly.

Bucky wraps his mouth around half an eggroll, and Steve’s brain activity flickers. He tightens his fingers around his fork, takes a bite of moo shu vegetables.

"What’re you staring at?" Bucky asks, and he somehow manages to make the words sound like an invitation through a mouthful of egg roll. He swallows, pushes the other half into his mouth, rounding out one of his cheeks like a hamster. Steve closes his eyes, feeling himself stir beneath his khakis. 

"Nothing," he says, and when he opens his eyes, Bucky’s grinning crookedly, twirling a dumpling he’s speared on a fork. He leans in, lolling his head onto Steve’s shoulder, and murmurs, "Think this shirt will last through both plates?"

Steve’s eyes shoot wide, and Bucky laughs, popping the dumpling into his mouth. “We’re gonna see,” he teases, and Steve’s mouth goes dry.

Bucky doesn’t talk much when he’s eating, a habit he used to share with Steve - probably a result of the Depression, Steve thinks. He’s had time to break the habit, but Bucky’s is still firmly in place: he works his way through both plates steadily, pausing only to gulp from the beers Tony puts in front of him and to belch softly, human hand pressed to his stomach. Steve and Natasha and sometimes Clint make conversation over his head, but Steve keeps an eye on the buttons of Bucky’s shirt, watching them tug farther from their buttonholes as he cleans his plate(s). 

He can hear Bucky’s breathing now, which only ever happens when (a) Bucky’s panicking, or (b) he’s getting uncomfortably full. There’s no sign of panic on Bucky’s face, nor is he pulled into the fetal position - if anything, he’s spread himself out more. He’s not sitting up as straight anymore, and his legs are splayed farther apart. His eyelids look heavier - probably, Steve thinks, in no small part from the few empty beer bottles in front of him. Even with a lot of food in his stomach, Bucky’s alcohol tolerance isn’t where it should be, not yet. 

He leans back against Steve, swallowing a few last pieces of beef and broccoli, and lets out a soft groan. Steve almost drops his fork. 

Bucky throws out an arm and waves it toward Steve, waggling his fingers. “Hand me my beer?” he asks, rolling his head on Steve’s shoulder to face him. Steve kisses his forehead, brings up a hand to thumb across the softness underneath Bucky’s chin. Bucky likes his stomach and what it does to Steve, likes the way his ass and thighs fill out his jeans, but he consistently hates his half-double chin, thinks it looks goofy, childish. Steve adores it. 

"I think you’ve had enough beer," he says, sliding an arm around Bucky’s waist, where his love handles fill out his button-down in a way Steve finds comparable to anything in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He lets his fingers play with them just a little - they’re in the company of friends, after all - and they’re soft, tempting.

"Just let me finish that one," says Bucky, flapping a hand at the closest bottle. "S’almost gone."

"Okay," Steve concedes, and he watches Bucky tip the bottle to his lips, somehow graceful in this one motion before he drops the bottle into Steve’s lap and settles against him clumsily. He hiccups, and Steve feels his belly jump against his hand. He tries to ignore the urge to squeeze the swell of fat there, just above Bucky’s belt. Bucky makes a low, satisfied noise in the back of his throat, and suddenly it’s much more difficult to resist.

"Lightweight," Natasha accuses playfully, reaching across the couch to flick the roundest part of Bucky’s belly, where the buttons are straining more than ever. Steve catches his breath, and Bucky hiccups again, pushing Natasha’s hand away. 

"Nnnno," he slurs. "This is not … hand to hand combat."

"Got that right, Buck," she agrees. "You in a good place?"

He considers it. “I will be better,” he says carefully, “if Steve gives me another dumpling.”

"You’ve had, like, eight of these, Buck," says Steve, hesitating. "You sure?"

Bucky nods against him. “I am sure,” he says. “Just. Put it in my mouth.”

The bottom drops out of Steve’s stomach, and he leans forward and pinches a dumpling out of one of the cartons. Bucky opens his mouth obediently, and Steve feeds him the dumpling, feeling himself grow harder in his jeans.

Natasha watches, amused, and Steve flushes scarlet. “I should get this one home,” he says, as Bucky swallows and nestles closer against him, another hiccup jostling his body. “He’s gonna be down for the count pretty soon.” 

"He looks down for the count right now," she contradicts, and Bucky waves a sluggish hand at her. "You," he says into Steve’s chest. " _заткнись_!”

Natasha barks out a laugh, and Steve looks at her expectantly. “Shut up,” she translates. “You should probably take him home if the Russian’s coming out.”

"Yeah," Steve agrees, shaking Bucky’s shoulder gently. "Come on, Buck, time to go."

He’s unsteady on his feet, full belly throwing him off further off balance, and Steve helps him out the waiting cab, groping his love handles through the thin button-down - which, for the record, has managed to stay buttoned.

It doesn’t last long, though - drunk Bucky very often becomes horny Bucky, and he snuggles against Steve in the back of the cab, hands wandering, teeth scraping the skin of Steve’s neck. Steve presses him to the window of the cab, hands grabbing and squeezing at Bucky’s stomach, and Bucky groans into Steve’s throat, whimpers when Steve pinches a little too hard. He works open the taxed shirt buttons, letting Bucky’s stomach spill into his waiting hands, and kisses him hard, hands crawling over his muffin top and dipping below his waistband to his soft hips. Bucky hiccups again, belly jerking a little, and he grins against Steve’s lips sleepily.

"Hey," he slurs. "My shirt didn’t pop."

"Somehow," Steve agrees, squeezing a handful of Bucky’s belly and watching his eyes flutter closed. He lets out a little moan, and arches himself toward Steve’s hands, and murmurs something Steve can’t quite hear.

"What was that, Buck?"

Bucky grins, a little sleepy, a little drunk, a little wicked. “I said, ‘Next time.’”


	3. on your right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Steve and Bucky go for a run together, and Steve really enjoys the scenery (the jiggly, bouncing scenery, if you get my drift) while they basically run circles around everyone else there effortlessly.

Bucky infuriates half the population of D.C. runners on his first day out with Steve without even trying.

It’s bad enough that he and Steve are many miles per hour faster than the average recreational jogger - but while Steve looks like the kind of man who _could_ physically run circles around the monuments without breaking a sweat, Bucky does not. He’s grown soft from months of recovery, recalibration, and laziness, and the weight is visible beneath his thin T-shirt. He doesn’t look like the kind of man who would be able to run a mile without getting breathless, never mind run twice as fast as everyone else without breaking a sweat.

Steve, however, couldn’t be happier. He’s got a little bit of a lead on Bucky, a couple feet maybe, but Bucky’s doing all right - a little flushed, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, but he hasn’t stopped to catch his breath yet, nor has he complained about the speed at which they’re running. He grins when Steve throws a glance behind him, and it’s not a stiff appeasing smile like during the war, it’s an easy, pure, first-sunny-day-of-spring smile. Steve’s entire body goes warm, and he jogs in place for a minute to let Bucky catch up to him.

"Don’t go easy on me," Bucky huffs once they’re running parallel, but his voice is light, teasing. Steve knocks a gentle elbow against his body, and Bucky sprints forward, a laugh spilling out behind him. His ass fills out Steve’s workout shorts perfectly, plump and wobbling just enough to dry out Steve’s throat as he runs. Bucky’s T-shirt is his own, and it fits him in theory - all of Bucky’s clothes are the smallest bit snug these days - but the waistband of Steve’s shorts create a bit more of a muffin top than usual beneath the cotton, and Steve enjoys watching that wobble too, bouncing a little every time Bucky’s feet hit the ground.

He doesn’t tire out until they’ve run several laps around the monuments, about half the distance Steve usually runs, and pauses in the shade of some oaks, hands on his knees, belly rolling over his waistband. “Okay,” he pants as Steve watches him catch his breath. “I think that’s enough for today.”

"Solid start," Steve says, as another jogger passes them and scowls. 

"Yeah," Bucky agrees, straightening. "More than I thought I could do with this." He jostles a handful of his stomach, and Steve watches it ripple beneath the thin fabric, poking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth. "Think Sam’ll make breakfast if we stop over before group?"

"Yeah, I’m sure he will," says Steve. "As long as you don’t tell _him_ how fast you can run.”


	4. better try the leather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: In which Bucky gets fitted for something to wear out Avenging. Nobody was expecting it to take it to take that much leather to cover Cap's boyfriend's ass properly (but they're super nice to him and at least one not-Steve person is blushing).

"I think you’ll find," says the woman in the fitting room, "that leather is a bit more … _forgiving_ than Spandex, so that’s something to consider when choosing a fabric.”

Steve sneaks a glance at Bucky, who’s smirking into the mirror, outfitted in a mess of shiny black Spandex, every curve of his body on display. His belly sits on his hips, wrinkling a line of fabric below its curve, and the the tops of his thighs bulge out, brushing against each other. His backside looks bigger than usual, straining the suit, and Steve resists the urge to give it a squeeze.

"I look like Natasha," Bucky observes, and Natasha, from where she’s standing, arms crossed, at the edge of the fitting room, scoffs in the back of her throat.

"I look much better with a gun," she says. "And you don’t have the rack for a catsuit, to be honest."

"So," says the saleswoman, beginning to sound vaguely desperate, "would you like to try the leather, then? Director Fury ordered a few different designs, and we can always … alter one if it doesn’t fit quite right."

Bucky’s smirk deepens, and he puts his hands on his hips, pushes his belly out, preens in the mirror. The saleswoman’s cheeks turn pink, and Steve watches Natasha bite her lip to keep from smiling.

"Yeah," says Bucky, "I’ll try the leather."

The leather prototype, they agree, looking at it on the hanger, is the best by far - sleek but practical, outfitted with extra protection for Bucky’s human arm, and bulletproof throughout, with some silver buckles and accents, and a star design resembling the one on Steve’s shield spread across the back. It fits Bucky’s one firm specification - absolutely no mask, nothing covering his face - and he likes the way it feel around his left shoulder, likes that it isn’t constricting. Only problem is, it doesn’t fit anywhere else.

The saleswoman isn’t the only one blushing anymore - Steve’s right there with her, though he imagines that his line of thinking is much more lustful than hers - she’s probably trying to figure out how this mistake was made, how the sizing is so inaccurate. But she hasn’t seen Bucky spend a day on the couch with a supply of takeout or junk food and a list of movie and TV recommendations from Tony and Clint. Whatever measurements Fury gave her - probably from the couple weeks Bucky spent in SHIELD-mandated hospital care - are long outdated by now. They don’t account for the swell of his belly, the curves of his hips, the volume of his ass. His stomach pooches through the gap between the upper- and lower-body pieces of the suit, where it would ordinarily buckle and strap together, and that’s only after he’s managed to shoehorn himself into the lower portion at all.

"Well," says the saleswoman, nervously pushing a lock of hair behind her ear, "why don’t you take that off -"

"If you _can_ ,” Natasha mutters from the corner, amused, and Steve bites down on his lower lip to keep his tongue from poking out at the idea.

”- And we’ll take your measurements again,” finishes the saleswoman, visibly more flustered by Natasha’s interruption. “I’m sorry for any inconvenience - these are the measurements Director Fury gave us to work with, I don’t know what went wrong -“

"Don’t worry about it," says Bucky smoothly, in the gentle voice Steve remembers from the old days, reassuring his mother and sister, or children they encountered in war-torn Europe. "It’s not your fault. You’ve been tremendously helpful - I’ll put in a good word for you with Fury, I promise."

Her blush deepens. “Thank you,” she says, and ducks out of the room.

When she returns a few minutes later, measuring tape in hand, Bucky has wriggled out of the leather suit - a process that involved enough grunting and jiggling to make Steve turn red and Natasha smirk at him smugly. Steve deliberately keeps his eyes off the measuring tape as the woman wraps it beneath Bucky’s armpits, around his shoulders, his waist, the widest part of his stomach, his hips. Knowing the number will only make it harder for Steve to keep his arousal under wraps.

"Well," says the saleswoman finally, "we should have it altered for you in about a week or so if you’d like to come try it on again, just to be sure."

"Probably a good idea," says Bucky, a half-smile quirking his lips. "Just in case."


	5. only as bright as you can shine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Bucky in a tux.

Bucky lasts about ten minutes into SHIELD’s 74th annual all-forces banquet before he has to unbutton the jacket of his tuxedo. 

Steve took him to get it fitted not too long ago - a few weeks at most, he guesses - but he either ate too big of a lunch this afternoon (entirely possible, he admits), or he’s gained a couple pounds since the fitting (also, he admits, a definite possibility). His stomach pushes just the slightest bit against the buttons of the starched white shirt, and his pants are just snug enough to accentuate the roll at his waist - Steve calls it his muffin top, loves to put his hands all over it - and having the jacket buttoned on top of all that is just too much work. It reminds him of his dress uniform from the war, all stiff and belted and proper, and that’s not exactly where he wants his head to be tonight. It’s been a good day so far, his head clear and stable, and he wants to enjoy it with a bit of free champagne and some of the hors d’oeuvres he sees floating around on trays.

Steve, next to him, comfortable in his own well-fitting tux, slips an arm around his waist, fingers lingering on the swell above his waistband. “Doing okay?” he says into Bucky’s ear. He tries to sound casual, but even he can hear the worry.

Bucky nods, the collar of his shirt and his bow tie exacerbating his slight double chin. Steve wants to kiss it, wants to tell him again - for probably the seventeenth time, but who’s counting - how handsome he looks all dressed up, how he looks like he walked off a movie screen, but Nick Fury likes to keep these events professional. An arm around one’s partner is acceptable; anything more intimate is frowned upon, no matter who the partners in question are.

"I’m fine," says Bucky, leaning his head on Steve’s shoulder for a fleeting couple of seconds. "I’m in a good place."

”Good,” says Steve, and Bucky can practically feel the relief radiating from him. “You want a drink?”

"Little bit of champagne would be good," says Bucky, and Steve sets off.

While Steve’s gone, Bucky flags a couple of waiters and makes himself a plate of appetizers: bacon-wrapped scallops, little spinach quiches, cheese and mushroom toasts, some kind of vegetable with prosciutto on top. He catches Steve’s eye across the room, can’t help but smiling when Steve’s face lights up. He raises both glasses of champagne to Bucky, whose grin widens. He’s seen a lot of Steve’s professional demeanor over the past several months, and he’s not sure how he likes it - it’s a bit cool to him, stiff, starched, sometimes old-fashioned. It tends to come out at events like this, when Steve’s not altogether comfortable - Bucky’s pretty sure it’s an insecurity leftover from when he was a scrawny kid in Brooklyn. He’s always been afraid of being taken advantage of because of his kindness, his politeness, his goodness - and it dims Bucky, too, when Steve puts a barrel over those parts of himself. Sometimes, these days, he feels he’s only as bright as Steve can shine on him, and if Steve’s not at full capacity, neither is he.

But the smile he gives Bucky across the room - that’s Steve. That’s a smile from a Brooklyn alley, glowing even through a split lip and a black eye. It’s a smile Bucky doesn’t often see paired with Steve’s somber formalwear, doesn’t often see among the SHIELD suits. But it lights him up from inside, and he tries to direct that light back to Steve when he meets his eyes again. He’s gotten tangled into conversation with a pale-haired woman and a man with shoulders wider than Steve’s, and when he glances back to Bucky, he gives a goofy grin and an almost comedic half-shrug, champagne flutes dangling helplessly from his hands.

Bucky decides to save him half his plate of appetizers, and stations himself against one of the columns near the room’s corners, out of the room’s bustle. He doesn’t make conversation with anyone; he’s content to wait for Steve. None of the SHIELD employees know how to speak with him anyway.

Steve watches Bucky back himself against a column, plate in hand. He watches him put something in his mouth, chew and swallow, and he hopes he’s doing okay on his own. The Kaidanovskys are influential international liaisons; it would be incredibly rude to back out of conversation with them, but their discussion of a collective munitions initiative pales in comparison to Bucky’s company. 

He tunes out Sasha and Aleksis’s voices - to be honest their accents are so thick they remind him of the accent Natasha puts on sometimes when they get enough vodka in her, and he can’t listen to them without imagining her exaggerated eye rolls and hand gestures - and focuses on Bucky, who’s idly glancing around the room, popping another appetizer into his mouth. Steve deeply appreciates everything his tuxedo is doing for his body - the dark jacket and pants have a sort of streamlining effect, cutting him a sharp figure, but the roundness of his belly, framed by the open halves of his jacket, softens him, makes his form look less severe. It’s easy, these days more so than back before the war, to catch Bucky at the wrong moment and see his furrowed brows, his heavy forehead and deep-set eyes, and think he looks stern, or angry. But the softness around his chin and middle, especially the way they’re framed tonight, make him look young, boyish. His eyes are bright when Steve catches them, and his smile is genuine.

He finally manages to extricate himself from the Kaidanovskys’ conversational iron fist and make his way back to Bucky with the champagne. Bucky gives him a sheepish grin, shows him an empty plate. “I was going to save half for you,” he says apologetically, “but I got bored.”

"Sorry," says Steve, handing him his glass. "The Kaidanovskys - they’re important. And you’re important too - _more_ important, to me - but it would have been impolite, you know, to just leave them -“

"Hey," says Bucky, as Steve gets more flustered. "It’s okay. I understand. You have obligations. It’s part of the territory. You don’t have to apologize for it."

"Well," says Steve, his flush receding a little, "you don’t have to apologize for finishing the appetizers. We can find more." He fits his arm around Bucky’s waist, and Bucky steps a little closer, so that their hips are touching. Their roles are reversed now - Steve used to fit beneath Bucky’s arm the way Bucky fits under Steve’s now - but Bucky prefers it this way, honestly. His footing is shakier these days than Steve’s is, and it’s nice to have one space designated exactly, only for him, a space he can’t outgrow or get lost in. 

"I love you," he murmurs into Steve’s ear, and he watches that dynamite smile spread across Steve’s face again before he returns the words in Bucky’s ear, a kind of quiet intimacy that Nick Fury has no business policing.


	6. a waist is a terrible thing to mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Maybeee something about Bucky's stomach making noises (burp/hiccup/gurgle) at inappropriate moments :D?

Along with monthly psychiatric exams, SHIELD mandates that Bucky needs to get a biannual physical, to make sure that he’s recovering properly from seventy years of cryo, improperly treated wounds, and chronic malnutrition.

He makes the mistake of going to lunch to Steve before today’s physical - the diner they like, down on 57th. Or, rather, the mistake isn’t going to lunch, it’s eating as much as he does.

His stomach gurgles loudly as they sit in the waiting room, and he slumps a little in his seat, spreading his legs to let his belly bloat.

"Okay there?" asks Steve, from behind a back issue of _Time_.

"Yeah," says Bucky, massaging his stomach. "Just full."

He heaves himself up when his name as called, wincing a little as his pants cut into his belly. “How are you today, James?” asks the nurse, a cheerful woman named Rosalie. 

"Oh, I’m doing fine," he says, following her into the exam room. "Feeling much better than the last time I saw you."

"Looking better, too," she says, and he realizes abruptly that he hasn’t had a physical since he gained all the weight. He tries to calculate, quickly - he was one-seventy when they took him in off the street, after Steve found him, but he’d lost a bit of weight since defecting from Hydra. Those few weeks are cloudy for him, but he remembers feeling skinny, frail, breakable. He thinks he’s gained maybe twenty pounds, but he doesn’t have much to measure against - Steve’s two-forty, he remembers that from the museum exhibit, but Steve’s all muscle, not an inch of fat on him. Bucky, well, he hasn’t gained much muscle.

She asks him the requisite questions - which meds is he taking, is he taking them regularly, is he sleeping well, is he eating well - and then hands him a paper johnny. “I’ll give you a second to change,” she says, “and then let’s get you measured.”

His stomach is swollen and hard from lunch, and he exhales gratefully as he strips down to his socks and boxers and tosses his balled-up clothes onto the spare chair. The johnny is much more forgiving.

Rosalie measures him, tells him that he’s five-eleven and weighs one ninety-seven. His eyes must widen a little, because she smiles and tells him that sometimes the transition onto a new medication - especially antidepressants and anti-anxieties like Bucky is on - can cause weight gain, and not to worry too much about it. He mentally subtracts a couple of pounds from the total - after a lunch like that, he’s bound to be carrying a little more than he normally would. 

She leads him back to the little room and asks him to get up on the exam table. He tries, while she’s jotting down his height and weight in his file, but he’s too full to do it easily - his stomach groans in protest, and the movement ignites a sharp pain in his side. His breath catches, and he steps up on the table using the little stepstool on the floor instead, stifling a burp. 

She checks his eyes, ears, and throat, and as she’s pressing her stethoscope to his chest, his stomach lets out another groan, louder than the first, and Rosalie laughs.

"Hungry?" she asks, and Bucky blushes.

"All the time," he says, although at the moment the thought of food is enough to make him want to burst. 

"That’s another side effect of the medication," she assures him, over another deep growl from his stomach. He blushes harder as she presses the stethoscope to his back. He breathes deeply for her, another belch hitching in his throat.

"Lie back," she says, and he eases backward, his stomach sloshing again. The weight of his full belly sits uncomfortably on his hips, and his breathing catches as everything inside it shifts as he lies down. 

She taps at his chest, and he feels her fingers sink into the softened flesh. He groans a little, softly, his lunch settling, and then she begins tapping his stomach.

Her fingers are gentle, but as soon as she applies a little pressure, noises begin curling up from his belly: gurgles, groans, little slurping sounds that almost make him nauseated.

"Oooh, you _are_ hungry,” Rosalie laughs, and he forces a laugh too. She presses a little harder, and he lets out a soft burp, coughing to cover it up.

"You eaten anything today?" she asks. "You should eat with your meds, you know."

"Oh," he says, "um, I had breakfast, yeah," because it’s easier than telling her that not only did Steve make pancakes this morning, but he, Bucky, managed to put away two cheeseburgers and fries at lunch, along with what Steve didn’t finish of his fish and chips. "But, uh, that was it."

"Eat something," she says, patting the top of his stomach. He swallows back another burp, his cheeks flushing hot.

She finishes the examination with his stomach gurgling softly throughout, and when she finally leaves to let him get dressed again, he breathes a sigh of relief.

Until he hikes his pants back up his thighs, and finds that his stomach has bloated too much during the exam to button comfortably. He struggles for a few minutes, then gives up and tugs his shirt down over his waistband, then shuffles back out to Steve in the waiting room.

"How’d it go?" Steve asks, putting down _Time_.

Bucky shrugs. “I’ve gained twenty-five pounds and my stomach won’t shut up. Why the hell did you let me eat so much before a goddamn _physical_ , Steve?”

"You ordered all that!" Steve protests, shepherding him out of the clinic. "I wasn’t going to stop you."

"I couldn’t even get my pants buttoned when I took the damn johnny off," Bucky gripes, and Steve stops short.

"Oh," he says, a blush rising in his cheeks.

“ _Yup_ ,” says Bucky, rubbing his stomach gingerly. “I could barely get myself onto the exam table, for chrissake.”

"Um," says Steve, unlocking the car, "let’s get home, huh? You should, uh … take care of that."

Bucky slides into the passenger seat, slumps down as far as he can without the seatbelt slicing across his neck. “We’re going home and taking a nap, is what we’re doing. I don’t think I can do anything else but lie down right now.”

Steve leans across the center console, pulls him in for a kiss. “That sounds good too.” One of his hands creeps to Bucky’s muffin top and gives it a squeeze, and Bucky breaks the kiss to belch deeply.

"Sexy," Steve remarks, grinning, and Bucky swats him.

"Shut up and drive," he says.


	7. 21st-century adjustments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: can you write something where Bucky has been eating a lot more and has no idea of the weight he's putting on? Until one day he can't fit into any clothes?

The twenty-first century, he discovers when he’s regained enough of himself to appreciate it, is _wonderful_. There’s so much more variety now than there was in the 1940s - movies, music, books, clothing, food. _Especially_ food.

Steve takes care of him for the first month or so, making sure he’s warm and comfortable and de-stressed and well-fed. He’s a better cook than Bucky expects, and one day, watching Steve putter around the kitchen making pancakes and bacon, he finally places where he’s seen the same motion before, what it reminds him of.

"You look like your mom," he says. "Doing that."

Steve turns, and his face lights up. “You remember my mom?” he says, incredulous.

Like his mom, Steve has a habit of pushing food on people, Bucky discovers quickly. He’s constantly asking if Bucky’s hungry, if he’s had enough to eat, if he needs anything because if he does Steve will go out and get it - so when Steve finally deems Bucky capable of staying home on his own when he goes back to work, Bucky’s almost relieved.

The first few days, he’s overwhelmed by all the choices he has when he’s trying to figure out how to fill his day. Steve doesn’t subscribe to any of the complicated on-demand TV packages they’re always advertising at commercial breaks, but he has Netflix (Natasha set it up, he said), and Bucky spends the first few days trying to figure out what to watch first. He tries to figure out the internet, tries to look up some of the things Sam’s put on their list. 

And then Bucky discovers takeout.

Steve has left him an emergency credit card, although what kind of emergency he might face from Steve’s couch that he could solve with a credit card is completely beyond Bucky. But Steve doesn’t have much food in the house that doesn’t require the stove, which Bucky’s vaguely intimidated by, so he reasons that using the credit card to order out for lunch is totally acceptable. 

He tries pizza first, and he’s pleased to discover that it’s even better now than it was in the ’40s. He’s even more pleased to discover that you get even more for your money now, although he honestly has no idea how much he’s _really_ spending. After a couple of days experimenting with different toppings - he still likes sausage best, no change from the old days - he switches to Chinese, and orders more than he thinks he can eat by the time Steve gets home. But he impresses himself - he finishes it all, and if Steve notices that Bucky’s lazier and sleepier than usual when he gets home, he doesn’t say anything - but, Bucky thinks, Steve also hasn’t noticed the pizza boxes and Chinese food cartons stuffed into the bottom of the garbage barrels outside.

The credit card bill doesn’t come in until the end of the month, and by then, Bucky has worked his way through not only pizza and Chinese, but Thai, Japanese, Indian, Portuguese, Ethiopian, and half of Little Italy. He’s got an idea of what he likes now, and he’s perfected the art of wasting days at a time eating himself into a food coma in front of the TV and binge-watching the movies on the list Clint and Tony gave him. He relishes the sensation of being full, sometimes so full that he can’t move - that’s something he never had during the Depression, that’s for sure.

"Buck?" Steve calls from the kitchen one Sunday, and Bucky hauls himself off the couch and slopes over to the kitchen table.

"Yeah?" he says, settling onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. 

"You know you’ve spent five hundred dollars on takeout this month?" Steve says, eyebrows furrowing, and Bucky squints at him.

"Really?"

"Really," says Steve, pushing the statement toward him. Bucky scans it, isn’t really sure how much this amounts to in modern money. A lot, judging by Steve’s tone. A lot by 1940s standards, but then, ten cents is a lot of money by 1940s standards, and Bucky’s seen Tony leave dimes on the floor untouched when he drops them, so he’s not really sure what to make of this.

"We have food here, Buck," Steve goes on, gesturing to the cabinets. "You don’t need to order out every time I’m gone."

"But you have to use the stove," Bucky hedges. "I don’t know how to do that."

"We have _snacks_ ,” Steve contradicts. “You don’t need the stove to have snacks.”

"Snacks aren’t meals," Bucky parrots. "You’re always saying that."

"Well, they’re not," says Steve, cutting his eyes at him. "Go get dressed. We’ll get some things you can microwave, then. Fury has me going to Kuala Lumpur for the next week and you are _not_ allowed to order out that entire time, got it?”

"Got it," says Bucky, eyeing the microwave. He’s not sure how that works, exactly, either, doesn’t quite understand the logic behind it, but it looks easier than the stove. "Give me ten minutes."

He hasn’t put on real clothes, going-out clothes, in weeks. He’s been slouching around the apartment in Steve’s old t-shirts and sweats because they’re the most comfortable options, sometimes just his boxers and a t-shirt if he feels like it. He fishes through his half of Steve’s closet for a shirt and a pair of jeans - he knows Steve bought some for him when he first moved in, though he’s hardly touched them - and strips out of the sweats.

The shirt is clingier than he remembers, snug against his torso, and he can’t hike the pants all the way up his thighs. He takes a long look at the tags - they’re his, all right, Steve’s are much bigger - and digs out a different outfit.

The button-down he tries next is even tighter, the buttons straining around his stomach, and this pair of jeans won’t slide past his hips either. He turns to the mirror hanging from the back of the closet door, shirt unbuttoned, pants around his knees, and squints hard at his reflection.

His hair is looking scruffy, that’s the first thing he notices - he’s got it tied up messily, should fix it before he goes anywhere. But then he takes a good look at the rest of him, and he realizes exactly why his clothes don’t fit.

His face is rounder, fuller, but that’s not the worst of it. His stomach - God, he’s so used to seeing it taut, ribbed with muscle, it’s so strange to see it this way - is soft, and it pooches over the waistband of his boxers, a thin trail of dark hair bisecting it below his navel, where it clefts a little, like a peach. His hips look rounder too, beneath his boxers, his thighs a little thicker. He reaches back on a whim and discovers that he’s got enough ass to _call_ an ass, now. 

"Steve!" he yells down the stairs, and Steve comes barreling up within seconds.

"Wha …" he begins, and then he looks at Bucky.

"Why are you smiling?" Bucky demands. "This isn’t funny."

"No," says Steve, "but it _is_ what happens when you eat twenty-five bucks’ worth of takeout for lunch every day.”

Bucky glares at him, then grabs a handful of his stomach experimentally, rolls it between his fingers. “What am I supposed to do with this, Steve? Nothing fits.”

"Well," says Steve, shit-eating grin firmly in place, "that’s what happens when you -"

"God damn it, Steve," Bucky growls, and Steve chuckles.

"Put your sweats back on," he says. "I’ve got a couple hoodies that’ll fit you. People wear much worse things to the grocery store in his century."


	8. there's something about an all-american hero (when he's all hot and bothered)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Do you think you could do something with Bucky popping the button on his jeans/any pair of pants? And Steve getting really turned on.

One thing Steve is not expecting is for Bucky, amid all the fantastic gourmet food in the 21st century, to develop a taste for greasy, shitty diner food.

He likes the diner down the block best, the one with the blue neon OPEN sign and the old-fashioned bar stools at the counter, with the cracked red vinyl cushions. He likes that he can still get a malted milkshake with his nachos or cheese fries, and he especially likes that the portions are bigger than anything he ever saw in the 1940s. And he might also like the way Steve’s face gets when he watches him scarf all of that down.

They like to come to the diner after going to late movies, when it’s just the two of them at the end of the counter, because the diner doesn’t have a liquor license and it stays pretty empty after ten on a weekend. But there’s no movie tonight, just a fierce craving for loaded nachos etched in some primal part of Bucky’s brain.

Steve orders a malted vanilla milkshake and some cheese fries that Bucky’s almost certain he won’t finish - or, rather, he’ll end up finishing them _for_ Steve - and Bucky orders a plate of nachos “to split,” with a couple Coney Island hot dogs to boot, plus his own milkshake.

He makes it through the first hot dog and most of the nachos, arguing between mouthfuls that _no way, the new Star Trek movies are way better than the old ones_ ( _The old ones aren’t even movies, Buck, they’re a TV series, and Nichelle Nichols was_ groundbreaking _as Uhura; Okay, but the new ones have Chris Pine, and there’s just something about a blond blue-eyed all-American hero, you know, Steve?_ ), when he starts feeling full. He swallows, muffles a belch, and takes a long pull from his shake. Steve shifts next to him, crossing his legs, and Bucky grins.

"Enjoying over there?" he asks, wrapping his mouth around the second hot dog. Steve goes red, and Bucky chews, swallows, smiles like the Cheshire cat.

"That was a lot of nachos," is what comes out of Steve’s mouth, and Bucky laughs. 

"Just wait," he says, licking ketchup off his fingers. He watches Steve’s jaw go a little slack, and sucks the tip of his index finger a little longer than necessary. "You gonna finish those?" he asks, and Steve shakes his head, pushing the basket of cheese fries across the counter. Bucky stuffs a handful into his mouth - a little too much, he thinks, but it’s worth the look on Steve’s face. 

His pants are starting to feel a little tight - they’ve been snug for a while now, not to the point that he can’t button them yet, but that day isn’t too far off - but he keeps eating, steadily. Steve paid for this, and he sure as hell isn’t going to let it go to waste - and plus, he’s not full yet. 

The waistband starts cutting into his stomach after he finishes the second hot dog and another few handfuls of fries, as he’s sucking down the last of his milkshake, swiping his tongue around the straw for Steve’s benefit. Steve’s eyes almost drop out of his head.

The fries leave his lips slick with grease, and he licks them off between bites, watching Steve squirm on his barstool. Another burp escapes before he can tuck it behind his hand, and he grins sheepishly as Steve fidgets. 

"Full yet?" he asks Bucky.

Bucky shrugs. “Almost,” he says, and flags the waitress to order a slice of apple pie, sure, with ice cream, why not.

He massages his belly and surveys the damage on the counter in front of him: empty fries basket, empty nachos platter, empty hot dog plate, empty milkshake glass. His pants are uncomfortably tight, the waistband digging into his stomach, and Steve watches, eyes ravenous, as he rubs gentle circles through his t-shirt.

"I can’t wait to get you home," he says hoarsely, and Bucky smirks. His stomach gurgles, protesting, and Steve flushes.

The portion size of the apple pie doesn’t disappoint, and Bucky digs in eagerly, ignoring the increasing pressure his pants are applying to his belly. Steve watches, practically drooling, and Bucky takes the pie off the fork as seductively as he can manage.

He’s just about finished - almost too full, actually, between the heaping portion of pie and generous scoop of ice cream - when the pressure on his stomach is suddenly gone, and there’s a small clatter against the floor of the diner.

"Did you …?" Steve asks, his voice strained, and Bucky gropes around the waistband of his pants. Sure enough, the button’s gone, his stomach swelling forward into the extra space. 

"Yep," he says, stifling a burp. "I thought these pants were getting a little small."

Steve is beet-red, the flush creeping down his neck, beneath his collar. “Blame the pants,” he manages, crossing his legs again.

"Good thing it’s not a long walk back," says Bucky, stretching his arms above his head. He watches Steve’s gaze travel to where his t-shirt has ridden up, as he knew it would, exposing his bloated belly. He watches Steve’s eyes widen, his tongue poke out of the corner of his mouth.

"Good thing it’s not a long walk back," Bucky repeats, and Steve tears his gaze away, looking all sorts of compromised. "I’m stuffed."

Steve swallows. “Let’s get you home, then,” he says, sliding off the barstool. “You should, um. Lie down or something.”

"Yeah," Bucky agrees. "Preferably beneath you. Between your thighs, I think."

"That can be arranged," Steve chokes, and Bucky grins like an idiot all the damn way home.


	9. hips (and thighs) don't lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: bucky with thighs so thick they jiggle through the tight fabric of his jeans would basically make my life

Steve doesn’t understand the purpose of skinny jeans for men until he sees them on Bucky.

Or, rather, until he sees them on Bucky a couple months after he buys them. Bucky doesn’t like too much excess fabric on his clothes these days, so when they first go out shopping to get him some 21st-century outfits, he chooses the pairs that fit the most snugly. This, Steve discovers, is a gift that peaks about twenty pounds later.

Bucky carries some of the weight on his stomach, but the rest of it settles near his hips, filling out his ass and thickening his thighs. There’s room in his pants for about ten of those twenty pounds, but he manages to squirm into them anyway - Steve’s not quite sure, but damn, is he grateful.

The first, most obvious effect of the too-snug pants that Steve notices is the muffin top they create around Bucky’s waist, soft and squishable and excellent for grabbing onto, but it’s not Steve’s _favorite_ effect. The tightness of the pants emphasizes the breadth of Bucky’s thighs, and not only that, it emphasizes the way they _move_.

Bucky’s thighs - big and soft and white, bare or boxer-clad - have a particular jiggle that gets Steve kinda hot, and this phenomenon is not diminished by his pants. They’re so snug that every wobble and shudder of his thighs is put on display, and when he wears the khakis Steve bought him (also skinny, per Bucky’s demand), Steve can just make out the dimples of cellulite spread across the backs, quivering when he walks. He thinks it might actually be hotter like this than it is when Bucky’s just in his boxers.

"How come you keep walking behind me?" Bucky asks as they’re walking to the cafe a few blocks away to grab coffee one day (Steve: black but for a tiny bit of milk, and always hot; Bucky: iced, milk and sugar, new flavor every time they go). "It’s not like you can’t keep up."

Steve blushes around his collar. “I like the way your ass looks in these pants,” he lies, because that’s vaguely less embarrassing than admitting _I like the way your cellulite jiggles in these pants_.

"My ass looks great in all my pants," Bucky contradicts. "What’s different about these?"

Steve struggles. “I like your thighs in these,” he says finally. “They, um.”

Bucky waits.

"They jiggle," says Steve finally, helplessly. "You can see it, you know, through the fabric …"

Bucky grins. “Oh, just you wait,” he says, holding the cafe door open for Steve. “You want jiggle, just wait until we get home.”

All the air leaves Steve’s body, or so he thinks, until Bucky leans up into his ear and adds, “And there _won’t_ be any pants.”

It takes the entire walk home for Steve to catch his breath again.


	10. phone sex interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~written as part of essieincinci's punk au 'verse; go read her [full-length fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1747199) because it's all kinds of great~
> 
> prompt, kinda: essie's post about "Steve going out of town for the convention (obviously) and for ~reasons Bucky can’t go and he maybe comfort eats and maybe he gets really full and then he’s sad because steve isn’t there and idk belly rub phone sex."

Bucky has a bad spell while Steve’s gone, and he can usually count on him to have something lying around or to whip something up when he needs to eat something, but Bucky’s been pretty good lately so Steve didn’t think to leave anything behind. But he flips past a war movie or something trying to find something to watch, and he stays on it just long enough to trigger all the bad feelings, and he’s useless in the kitchen so he orders out Chinese, _lots_ of Chinese, and starts making his way through a six-pack of beer.

Eating a lot in front of Steve is one thing - he gets a kick out of how hot and bothered it gets Steve, and it’s kind of like a game, how much _can_ he eat before Steve starts pawing at his clothes or he beaches himself on the couch, whichever comes first - but stuffing himself with Chinese food _alone_ is something totally different and about 500% more pathetic, and he mopes his way through a box of fried rice, two orders of General Tso’s, a couple eggrolls, some noodles - he loses track after a while. It’s lonely, and he feels like the rock-bottom scene of the sappy movie he flipped past on Lifetime. And when he’s done, there’s no one to slip cold hands under his shirt, no one to marvel at all the empty cartons, no one to massage his grumbling stomach as he digests what he estimates is probably enough food to feed a family of four.

He figures the convention can’t still be running at ten p.m., so he calls Steve and forgets about the time difference, but Steve assures him that he’s done for the night, he’s back at his hotel, and Bucky says, “oh, Jesus, good,” because studies show: this is probably not a phone call Steve should hold in public.

"What’s up?" Steve wants to know, his voice thin with worry. "Is everything okay?"

Bucky tucks the phone between his jaw and his shoulder, uses both hands to heft his belly a little. He burps softly, accidentally. “Yeah,” he says, swallowing. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

"Yeah?" Steve says. Bucky imagines him curled on his hotel bed, glasses slipping down his nose, wrapped up in the worn hoodie Bucky noticed was missing from his side of the closet this morning. "What are you doing?"

A cramp squeezes and loosens in Bucky’s stomach, and he groans into the phone. “Buck?” says Steve.

The beer is starting to take effect, and Bucky says, only the smallest hint of a slur to the words, “What … am I … doing. Well” - he shifts, trying to get comfortable, and his stomach protests. He lets out a soft _oof_ and continues, “You comfortable over there, Stevie?”

"Yeah," says Steve, cautious.

"Well, good," says Bucky, "because I’m gonna tell you what I had for dinner, and it might take a while."

He hears Steve’s breathing hitch after the third thing he lists, and when he finally finishes, Steve’s voice is small as he says, “You must be real full.”

Bucky swigs from another beer, belches lazily. “Could say that,” he says. 

"Tell me about it," Steve manages. "What shirt are you wearing?"

Bucky knows Steve, knows he wants to be able to picture every detail of it, so he tells him: “The red plaid flannel you got me, it’s real snug. It’s riding up a little at the bottom; I’m kinda surprised it’s holding up. You know which jeans, the ones with the hole. I had to unbutton them, they were too tight. They’re, uh” - he feels around, making sure - “they’re almost all the way unzipped. I didn’t do that, my stomach did.” He burps again, splaying a hand against the side of his belly. “Oh, man, Steve, I’m stuffed. I’m leaning back on the couch, you know, and I don’t think I could get my fat ass up if I wanted to.”

He hears Steve’s breathing over the phone, quick and heavy. “Keep going,” he says hoarsely, and Bucky grins to himself.

"You oughta see this," he says, looking down at the mound of his belly, at the buttons straining to contain him. "You wouldn’t believe how bloated I am, huh? It’s just all - all big and heavy, probably weighs more than you do, Stevie - but jeezus, it’s sore, I’m over here rubbing it on my fuckin’ own, it’s pathetic."

Steve chokes out a little laugh.

Bucky chugs the rest of his beer, lets out a low, guttural _urp_ and hears Steve suck in his breath. It’s the same sound he makes when Bucky’s got his mouth wrapped around Steve’s dick and does that thing with his tongue, and Bucky’s hopes are pretty much confirmed.

"How you doin’ over there, Stevie?" he asks, and he’s rewarded with a storm of Steve’s quickened breathing. "You oughta see the way my gut hangs out of this shirt like this, you know, all spilling over on the sides, it’s so fuckin’ huge."

There’s a breathy gasp and grunt from the other end of the line, and then the ebb and flow of Steve’s just-came panting. Bucky grins again, rubbing circles into his stomach.

"Miss you, punk," he says fondly, idly pinching the chub rolling over his waistband. "You and your little hands and your belly rubs."

"I miss you too, jerk," says Steve, his breathing having evened a little. "Couldn’t fuckin’ wait a few more days to put yourself in a food coma, huh?"

"Maybe I just wanted to get you all hot and bothered from two thousand miles away," says Bucky, "using nothing but a metric fuckton of Chinese food."

"Yeah, well," says Steve, "you succeeded."


	11. i got all the padding, you got all the heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: someone is making disparaging comments about Bucky's weight gain and Steve defends him vigorously.

Usually Bucky’s chatty over dinner; he usually has a thousand things to say, because he knows Steve will be content to listen. But tonight he’s quiet, pushing his boiled rice and potatoes around his plate.

"Here," he says finally, sliding the plate to Steve. "I’m not hungry, and we shouldn’t waste it."

Steve cocks his head. Bucky _always_ cleans his plate, and usually what’s left of Steve’s, too. ”You need to eat, Buck.”

Bucky shakes his head, smiling tightly. “I’ll be okay. You need it more than I do, anyway. I’m big enough already.”

Steve’s stomach drops. Bucky’s carrying around a few extra pounds, sure, but he’s had them since they were kids. The softness on his belly, on his hips, on his cheeks, under his chin - it’s just puppy fat. Steve likes it, likes how solid Bucky is compared to him, likes how warm he is when they huddle under the covers at night (because neither of them can afford to heat their little walk-up, okay, and it’s just more economical this way). Aside from the occasional self-deprecating remark, it’s never seemed to bother him much - he jokes that Steve’s the bones and he’s the padding; together they make up one whole fella. 

"Don’t say that," says Steve, pushing the plate back to him. "You’re _healthy_ , Buck, that’s all. You’re not skin and bones. That’s a _good_ thing.”

"Skin and bones and _fat_ ,” mutters Bucky, standing up from the table. “You don’t have to sugarcoat it, Steve. I know.”

"Bucky -" says Steve, but he’s already gone, bedroom door slammed shut. Steve sighs, eats Bucky’s potatoes. There’s too much food left to waste all of it.

Bucky doesn’t say much when Steve joins him in bed later, just snuffles and rolls over, pushing Steve’s hands away when he wraps them around Bucky’s waist.

"Don’t," he says into the pillow, and Steve, disheartened, keeps his hands to himself.

Bucky picks at breakfast the next morning before they leave for their paper routes, and Steve can’t get a darn thing out of him about this sudden bout of insecurity. 

"You have to eat something," Steve says, catching Bucky by the shoulder as he goes to leave the apartment. "You can’t starve yourself, Buck."

Bucky shrugs his hand off. “Maybe I should,” he says quietly, and slips past Steve and out the door.

His moodiness weighs on Steve like it’s his own. He slogs through his paper route feeling like he’s carrying a brick on his lungs, and it only gets heavier when he looks down one of the alleys he usually gets beat up in out of habit, and sees Bucky and one of the neighborhood jerks at the end of it.

He creeps toward them cautiously, until he can hear what the other guy is saying. He’s got Bucky pressed up against the bricks, one arm twisted above his head, and the grimace on Bucky’s lips tells Steve that it hurts more than he’s letting on. He’s got blood trickling from a cut on his lip, a black eye swelling, and although Steve can’t see the other guy’s face just yet, he’d bet that he’s got at least couple scrapes too. Bucky never goes without a fight.

"Poor greedy rich boy," the guy says, getting into Bucky’s face. "It’s not like you need the money to eat - enough of you already, isn’t there?"

Bucky tries to twist away, struggles against the guy’s hold, but he says nothing. Steve can see that his lower lip is clamped between his teeth.

"Hand over the money, punk," growls the guy, rearing back one arm, and that’s when Steve darts forward him in the jaw, knocking him off balance.

"Leave him alone," he says, squaring his shoulders as the guy gets back up. Bucky moves in front of Steve instinctually, but Steve shoulders him aside. This guy’s tried to beat him up before; he’s more talk than he is action. 

"Sure," says the guy, cracking his knuckles. "Protect him. Looks like he’s been eating your share of the rations, huh, Rogers?"

"He’s twice the guy you are," Steve says defensively, and the guy smirks.

"Can say that again," he says, rolling back his sleeves. "Lookin’ to get your ass kicked today, Rogers?"

"Go ahead," says Steve. "Leave Buck alone. You want our money, you’ll have to get it from us."

"All right," he says, shrugging, and he lunges at Steve.

It takes a little while - Bucky can only see out of one eye at the moment, and Steve’s about half the size of this guy - but they manage to get him down. Even though there’s not a whole lot of muscle between them, Steve’s quick with his fists, and Bucky can throw his weight around to his advantage, and if they both come out of it a little more bruised and bloodied than before, well, call it a battle scar.

"You know that all’s not true," Steve says to Bucky as they climb the steps back up to their apartment. "You don’t need to starve yourself. You’re fine the way you are."

Bucky shrugs. “Sometimes I forget,” he says, “that not everyone’s as good as you are, Stevie. That sometimes people see me and think, _There’s someone eating more than his share of rations_ , or _What’s he doing with a paper route, he looks too healthy to need the money_. And I know it’s not true, because the people like you, Steve, those are the ones who matter - but it hurts, sometimes. Knowing that’s what they must think.”

He turns away from Steve, fitting the key into the lock, and holds the door open for him. Steve waits until he takes his coat off, and then throws his arms around him. Bucky looks surprised, at first, when Steve glances up, but his arms settle around Steve’s thin shoulders.

"You’re the perfect size," says Steve, into Bucky’s chest. "Your sweaters are big enough to keep me extra warm on top of mine, and you keep me from freezing to death at night. You’re big enough to take other guys when you fight. You’re not cold all the time, like I am. Your body works _perfectly_ , Buck. No asthma, no heart trouble. It keeps you healthy and it keeps you warm. Do you know what I’d give to have something like this?” He slides a hand down to Bucky’s belly, runs his fingers over the soft curve there. “Think about that, okay, Buck? When you feel bad about it. Think about how lucky you are to have a body that works properly all the time.”

Bucky rubs his hand up and down Steve’s shoulders. “Listen to you,” he says, but his voice is lighter than before, teasing. “I got all the padding, you got all the heart.”

"Jerk," says Steve affectionately, tweaking the flesh beneath his fingers. Bucky starts, and they pull away from each other, Bucky’s cheeks a little pink.

"I’m gonna make dinner," says Steve. "Some very special boiled rice and potatoes, and I want to see you eat everything I put in front of you, okay?"

Bucky nods slowly. “Okay,” he says, and he smiles.


	12. retirement benefits for superheroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Could I request one with an older Bucky putting on some weight? Maybe he's been with Steve for years and his metabolism's really catching up to him?

They don’t exactly retire at forty-five - they just take a step back, Steve calls it.Neither the serum nor Bucky’s enhancements can prevent natural aging, just slow it down, but after Bucky tears his ACL on a mission and it takes a much more human amount of time to heal than his past injuries have, Steve suggests they settle down a little more, before something _really_ dangerous happens.

They stay with SHIELD - the retirement benefits are great, and Natasha points out that they could have been raking them in a long time ago, if they’d played the age card - but they’re not out in the field anymore. Bucky takes a position with Sam in the newly minted rehabilitation and mental health program for out-of-duty soldiers, and Steve opens up a project that’s been on his mind for a while: the Peggy Carter Foundation, a government/military-centric leadership program for young women.

Steve and Sam still run every morning - Bucky has fallen out of the routine, especially after his ACL injury, but he’s always got breakfast ready when Steve comes home. They both still look pretty good for their age, though Bucky’s got crow’s feet around his eyes, and his features are softening a little. He’s gained some weight over the past few months, between being laid up from his injury and the slowing of his metabolism. Steve’s has slowed down some, too, but he’s always been better at eating well than Bucky has - Bucky likes fast food, takeout, comfort food, and he’s gotten used to his metabolism burning it off for him. Steve likes the way he looks now, though - padded around the hips and stomach, the lines of his body softened some - and he likes the way his clothes fit him now, everything just a tiny bit tighter and clingier. 

This morning, Bucky is making pancakes when Steve gets in, a sweat just beginning to break on his brow. He kisses Bucky hello, tasting bacon and maple syrup on his lips, and Steve grins when they pull away.

"Sampling the goods?" he asks, plucking a strip of bacon off the plate on the counter.

"Of course," says Bucky, swatting him with a dishrag. "Have to make sure it’s fit for _Captain America_.”

"For the man," Steve corrects, mouth full, "formerly known as Captain America."

"For a punk currently known as Steve Rogers," Bucky amends, bumping his hip against Steve as he lays out two plates of pancakes. "Hey, that press thing you’re doing with Natasha this weekend, for the Peggy Foundation, is that Saturday or Sunday?"

"Saturday," Steve replies, getting out the orange juice and pouring two glasses. "Why?"

Bucky shrugs, bringing the plates to the table and sitting down. “I was gonna go out one day and pick up a few new pairs of pants, maybe some shirts. Thought you might want a day out.”

"What happened to your old pants?" Steve asks, though he thinks he knows. But the idea of Bucky acknowledging the weight he’s gained is oddly appealing to him, and a warm thrill curls in his stomach when Bucky answers, "Getting a little too snug in the waist. Think I’ve gotten a little out of shape since my ACL surgery."

He digs into his pancakes, and Steve sits down across from him, just watching. There’s something about the way Bucky eats that gets him - maybe it’s a result of having lived through the Depression, a general joy and graciousness at having enough to eat - something about the way he closes his eyes and rolls his lips together, and the way he looks with his mouth full. 

"You can start running with Sam and me again," Steve offers. "If you want to get back into shape."

Bucky shrugs. “Nah,” he says. “I think I’ll sit that out, for now. I’m okay with being a little soft. Goes with the government day job, you know?” He grins at Steve, and Steve smiles back through a mouthful of breakfast.

"Plus," Bucky continues, "Sam and I had a long talk at one of my sessions about not feeling guilty about doing what makes you feel good" - because that’s something Bucky has struggled with since coming back, whether it’s for taking up too much of Steve’s time or for using the last of the toothpaste - "and eating like this" - he gestures to the stack of pancakes on his plate, then rubs a hand over his potbelly - "makes me feel good. So. No guilt, no make-up workouts, no diets. Just enjoying myself."

"Good," says Steve, and Bucky smiles again, lowering his eyes to his food. He’s so proud of how far Bucky’s come in the past two decades, how he’s progressed from one of the toughest, most far-gone cases the SHIELD specialists had ever seen to a real person again, with a job and a life and, all things considered, a pretty well-adjusted psyche. "That’s great, Buck. I’m proud of you."

Bucky looks up, cheeks pink, mouth full. “I know,” he says. “You tell me all the time.”

"That’s ‘cause I’m always proud of you," Steve says. "Let’s plan on Sunday for shopping, huh? We’ll make a day of it, treat ourselves."

"Sounds great," says Bucky. "I just want to get some things in one or two sizes up, so I don’t pop any buttons at work."

The warm rush pours back into Steve’s stomach. “How about those boxers?” he asks, gesturing to Bucky’s lap with his fork - Bucky rarely makes breakfast in anything but an undershirt and boxer shorts. “Are those too small too?”

Bucky grins, just wicked enough to get Steve a little hot. “You might have to find out for yourself,” he says, “after breakfast.”


	13. how to win the affections of superheroes and sample DC's best takeout: a book by bucky barnes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Pleasepleasepleass chubby bucky fic where he finds out that Steve likes bigger guys and then gains a bunch of weight to get Steve's attention.

Steve looks disappointed with the _Guardians of the Galaxy_ trailer. 

"What’s wrong?" asks Bucky, peering over his shoulder at the laptop screen. Steve’s reflection looks back at him, brows furrowed, and shrugs.

"It’s nothing," he says. "Nothing that will affect the quality of the movie, at least."

"Aw, come on," says Bucky. "Is it the raccoon? Because that kinda threw me too."

"No, no," says Steve. "I just … this is stupid, Bucky. I’m sure it’ll be a great movie."

"Tell me," Bucky wheedles, leaning against the back of Steve’s armchair. He resists the urge to play with the fine blond hairs on the back of Steve’s neck, to work the knots out of Steve’s broad shoulders. The longer he feels like himself - and it’s been a while now, several months - the more okay he is with being touched, and the more he finds himself wanting to touch other people. And at the helm of this desire for human contact is a desire to touch Steve, in particular. His stupid schoolboy crush, having survived the Great Depression and the war, has also somehow managed to survive seventy-plus years of cryogenic freezing, amnesia, brainwashing, several near-death experiences, and more abuse than any human being should have to endure. 

Steve blushes all the way to his hairline. “I just think Chris Pratt looks better when there’s a little … _more_ of him,” he admits, and something clicks in Bucky’s head.

"Oh," he says, more to himself than to Steve. " _Oh_.”

Bucky’s got a lot of time on his hands these days, on medical/psychiatric discharge from SHIELD, and since Steve leaves him at home to go do superhero things most weekdays, he decides to use the time to conduct an experiment. He’s got a handsome balance in his bank account, set up by Steve and SHIELD’s retired vets division, so Steve won’t be any the wiser when Bucky starts charging considerable amounts of takeout for lunch every day.

Because maybe, Bucky thinks, he’s just not the right size for Steve to be attracted to him, no matter how much Steve might like him as a person. Maybe there just needs to be a little bit more of him.

So he dedicates himself to trying the best food DC has to offer. He discovers he likes pad Thai a whole lot, can eat a couple orders in one sitting if he puts his mind to it. Vegetable tempura is good; sushi, not so much - it takes more than he can order inconspicuously to get him good and stuffed. Italian is always his fallback - reminds him of his Italian neighbors growing up in Brooklyn, and it’s heavy, comforting. He can put away a couple pizzas or an order of lasagna and sleep off the rest of the day in a food coma, easy.

The weight goes on fast - he’s not burning any calories lying on Steve’s couch all day, and he estimates he’s probably consuming about three times as many calories a day as he actually needs. He inspects himself, fresh out of the shower, after Steve leaves every morning: his belly is softening, beginning to swell over his waistband, a thin line of dark hair trailing down the peach cleft below his navel. His thighs are pudgier, and there’s some softness gathering under his chin. He’s been camouflaging himself with T-shirts and hoodies and sweats so that he doesn’t spoil the reveal for Steve, but it’s satisfying to see it taking shape on his hips and waist. 

Today he decides to try one some of his other clothes, see how they hold up against what he guesses must be somewhere around twenty pounds. His button-downs pull snug across his stomach, the fabric puckering around the buttons themselves, and he can barely get his jeans up over his thighs. He has to lift his belly a little to get them buttoned at all, has to suck in as much as he can, and he thrills a little, imagining Steve’s face when he sees. He wriggles into one of the smallest T-shirts he can find - his muffin top pooches out between the hem and the waist of his sweatpants, and the thin cotton is pulled so taut that he can see the shadow of his navel beneath it. He jostles his belly with one hand, watches it jiggle in the mirror, pulls his hoodie back over the T-shirt, and smiles in anticipation. 

That night, when Steve’s making dinner - baked chicken and spinach salad, nothing fun because Steve insists on being _healthy_ ; if only he knew what Bucky’s been up to the past month and a half - Bucky hauls himself off the couch and slopes into the kitchen.

"Hot in here," he remarks, pulling his hoodie over his head, and Steve looks up from the cucumber he’s chopping and drops the knife altogether.

“ _Shit_ ,” he hisses, and Bucky grins, because catching Steve off guard enough to make him curse is a rare pleasure. “Bucky - are you - what happened, Bucky? Why didn’t you tell me something was wrong?”

"What?" says Bucky, grin slipping off his face. "Nothing’s _wrong_. Why would something be wrong?”

Steve comes a little closer, eyes wide. “Overeating is a sign of stress,” he says. “A symptom of depression and sometimes PTSD - Sam has pamphlets, I read them all when you came back, you should have _said_ something, Buck, we would have helped you -“

"No," says Bucky, crossing his arms over his stomach, squishing it down. "No, no, Steve, I’m fine, I promise."

"Then what …?" Steve’s voice trails off, and his eyes get stuck around Bucky’s midsection. Bucky, suddenly embarrassed, lowers his own eyes.

"This is stupid," he mutters. "This was a stupid idea. I’m fine, Steve, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you."

"What did you _mean_ to do?” Steve asks, and Bucky feels himself flush. Is it more embarrassing, he wonders, to admit that he’s got feelings for Steve, that he’s been carrying these fucking feelings around since the 1940s, or that he’s spent the past month and a half packing on twenty-odd pounds to get Steve’s attention? 

Well, he figures, it’s probably all going to come out sooner or later, and after _seventy fucking years_ , sooner is probably best.

"You said …" he starts, and Steve looks at him, expectant. "You said Chris Pratt looked better with a little more of him, so I … I don’t know, Steve, this is _stupid_.”

"No," says Steve gently, "go on. Tell me. I won’t think it’s stupid."

Bucky puts his hands on his stomach, cradles it, hefts it a little. “I thought you might like me with a little more, too,” he says quietly. 

His eyes are on the floor, his face hot, but he looks up when he sees Steve’s bare feet shuffle closer to his own - even his _feet_ look kind of pudgy, Christ - and Steve, cautiously, reaches out and catches Bucky’s chin in his hand.

"Hey," he says, voice soft, like he’s speaking to a baby animal. "What made you think I didn’t like you in the first place?"

Bucky tucks his chin to his chest, squirming away. “I know you like me,” he says, pulling his crossed arms tighter. “I wanted you to _want_ me, Steve.”

Steve keeps his hand on Bucky’s face, strokes his thumb along his softened jawline. “Well,” he says quietly, “here’s the thing, Buck.”

Bucky swallows, braces himself.

"I’ve wanted you since 1939," says Steve. "I don’t think a whole lot’s gonna change that now."

His other hand is suddenly on the small of Bucky’s back, drawing him closer, and Steve angles his mouth toward Bucky’s. 

Bucky thinks maybe another seventy years pass before they pull away from each other, foreheads still touching, both a little breathless, both smiling.

"This is nice, though," Steve murmurs, his hand sliding to Bucky’s belly, gently squeezing a handful. "I’m not going to complain if you want to keep it."

Bucky manages a laugh, happy and incredulous, and covers Steve’s hand with his own. “Oh, you better believe I’m keeping it. This was way too much work to just abandon.”


	14. in which bucky does fat camp all wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 2: unintentional weight gain; 8: size differences/comparisons; 9: button-popping/seam ripping; 13: trying on old/tight clothes (not kinky in character); 23: some other AU setting (unspecified by this asker); 27: character weighing in after not checking the scales for a while [from [this meme](http://chubmccalls.tumblr.com/post/85302456476/chubby-kink-weight-gain-etc-ask-box-fic-meme)]

Bucky kinda wishes Steve wouldn’t stand so close to him, for a change. He’s not shy about his weight, not shy about having it read aloud to a few dozen people, all of whom have almost definitely lost more weight than he has, but if the past is anything to go by, Steve will almost definitely pop a boner when he realizes that, if anything, Bucky’s added a few pounds to his frame since he arrived at camp, and that’s not something Bucky wants to happen in front of the same few dozen people.

He steps forward onto the scale, and Director Fury shuffles his files until he gets to Bucky’s. “At your last weigh-in, James,” he booms, “you weighed two hundred and six pounds. And today…” He glances down, frowns, and Bucky sets his jaw. “You weigh two hundred and eight.”

Bucky hears Steve draw in his breath sharply behind him. 

"You and I," says Director Fury, staring into Bucky’s eyes like he can see every contraband pizza and illicit pint of ice cream they’ve shared in Steve’s cabin, "are going to have a talk later, you hear me?"

"Yes, sir," says Bucky, unnerved, and he doesn’t fully relax until he’s in Steve’s cabin later, lying on his back with his head in Steve’s lap, Steve’s fingers working through Bucky’s thick dark hair. Bucky looks at the mound of his stomach - he can still see over it, he’s not _that_ big - and he knows two pounds isn’t enough to make any visible difference, _obviously_ not, but he thinks it looks bigger than usual beneath his T-shirt. 

"You’re gonna be okay talking to Fury, right?" says Steve, and Bucky shrugs.

"Can’t be any worse than the conversation that got me in here," he says. "I ever tell you about that?"

Steve shakes his head. “Something about cheeseburgers and pants that didn’t fit you, that’s all you said.”

"That was part of it," says Bucky, shifting his arm so he can grab Steve’s free hand and twine their fingers together. "It was over spring break - my mother’s birthday fell right at the beginning, first weekend I was home since winter break. And I’ve told you a little about my mom, right, she likes things fancy, so she herds up me and my dad and my sister, like, ‘Come on, get dressed up, we’re going out somewhere nice.’"

He remembers it in a haze that’s half amusement, half humiliation. He hadn’t put on dress clothes since Christmas, and they’d been snug then, had elicited some sidelong glances from his relatives. He’d turned away, kept smiling, poured another glass of wine - the first holiday he’d been allowed to drink, and _thank God, you know, Steve, my relatives are much more tolerable with alcohol_.

But he’d apparently gained more weight between winter break and the first weekend of spring break, because it took as much sucking in as was humanly possible and a whole carefully choreographed routine to get into his dress pants. They just barely buttoned, pulled tight around his ass and squeezing out even more muffin top than usual, which he then had to button into his shirt. The fabric around the buttons puckered, and he threw on a tie at the last minute to conceal that, at least.

He snuck a glance at himself in the mirror before leaving his room, gritting his teeth as he took in the straining shirt, the roll of his stomach, the skin-tight pants. _Figured I probably wouldn’t be eating much, if I didn’t want to bust a button in the middle of this fancy restaurant_.

Turns out he hadn’t even gotten that far. He’d gone downstairs and managed to avoid meeting anyone’s eyes, tossed his wallet from hand to hand uneasily, waiting for the first remark. 

Then he’d dropped his wallet and dipped down to retrieve it, and then he’d split his pants.

"Oh, Buck,” Steve groans, and Bucky presses a finger to Steve’s lips.

"No, it gets better," he says. "So I’m standing in my living room, my entire family just _gawking_ at me, my fat ass hanging out of the back of my pants in this stupid pair of Fred Flintstone boxers my sister got me for a stupid Christmas gift, and my dad decides, I don’t know, better late than never to acknowledge that your kid’s getting fat, and asks if I want to drive to the restaurant with my feet, _like a fucking cartoon character_ , because I could use the exercise. So I don’t say anything, because what the fuck _can_ I say, and I go shoehorn myself into another pair of dress pants and sulk through dinner, and the next morning when I come downstairs, there’s half a grapefruit where I usually sit and a bunch of fat camp printouts fanned out next to the plate.”

"Oh, _Bucky_ ,” says Steve, squeezing his hand. “That sucks. I’m so sorry.”

"Not your fault," says Bucky, squirming out of Steve’s lap and tugging him down on the bed. "It would’ve been one thing if I’d wanted to lose the weight, you know? If I’d had a problem with it, we could have worked out a way for me to lose it. But I mean … as long as I’ve got clothes that fit, it doesn’t bother me a whole lot, but they just … they didn’t get that."

"I get it," Steve offers, pulling him close. "C’mere."

Bucky obliges, gladly. Steve’s bigger than he is, technically, taller and more muscular - Steve probably even _weighs_ more, for that matter - and it’s comforting to be the smaller person in the room, especially when the bigger one is so willing to wrap his arms around him. Steve’s hard, taut, solid, everywhere Bucky is soft, and his shoulders are wider than Bucky’s widest parts. He can actually _pick Bucky up_ , can lift him off the ground and toss him over one shoulder, and that hasn’t stopped amazing Bucky just yet.

"Hey," he says, once he’s comfortably spooned against the plane of Steve’s torso. "You think those two pounds got you hot earlier, let me tell you something else about spring break," and he feels Steve inhale.

"My mom wanted to know what the damage was, exactly," Bucky continues, and Steve nods against him, kissing the back of his neck. "So she made me get on the scale after their little breakfast intervention, so I could start setting a _goal weight_ for the end of the summer.”

He pauses, listening to Steve breathe in his ear. “And?” says Steve after a moment, his fingers teasing the soft skin just under the hem of Bucky’s T-shirt, gently grabbing and pinching.

"And," says Bucky, drawing it out, "over the course of a semester and a half, I managed to put on thirty pounds, Steve."

“ _Oh_ ,” Steve breathes, kneading Bucky’s belly a little harder. “That’s, um. That’s a lot.”

"Yep," says Bucky, covering Steve’s hand with his own, pressing it against his stomach. "Seems like you’re in luck, too, because I don’t seem to be very good at losing it."


	15. i know what you're into, rogers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: 23: AU setting - the Stark tower [from [this meme](http://chubmccalls.tumblr.com/post/85302456476/chubby-kink-weight-gain-etc-ask-box-fic-meme)].

They’re all _astonished_ by how much Bucky can eat on a regular basis.

"Can you do that too, Rogers?" Tony asks, intently watching Bucky devour a third stack of pancakes one morning. "How come you never do that?"

Steve looks up from scrubbing the griddle in the sink. “I probably could,” he says. “But Buck’s always had a bigger appetite than me.”

Bucky burps, pushing his plate away. “Not only that, Stark,” he says, “but I think that after what I went through for seventy years, I deserve to enjoy myself a little, huh?”

"I’m not attacking you," says Tony, holding up his hands in surrender. "I’m just impressed, is all. I’ve seen a lot of great things in my time, Barnes, but I have never seen one man consume two cheesecakes in one sitting, and I saw you do that the other night without breaking a sweat."

Bucky shrugs. “Lotta room in here,” he says, running a hand over the curve of his belly. He burps again, the sound trailing off into a groan, and he leans back in his chair. Steve rolls his lips together, plunges his hands back into the hot, soapy water.

~

"I don’t mind springing for takeout," says Clint one lazy night, the bunch of them sprawled out in one of Tony’s several living rooms, "but I’m not paying for him if he decides to order half the menu again." He points an accusing finger at Bucky, who’s spread out on one of the dark leather couches, legs draped across Steve’s lap. Steve’s got one hand under the hem of Bucky’s shirt, but he withdraws it sheepishly when the rest of the room turns their gazes on the two of them. 

"Sorry, man," says Bucky, grinning. "I’ll behave, if you wanna order out."

"I’ll pay for him," Steve cuts in, a light flush creeping up his cheeks. "I don’t mind."

"Oh, I _know_ you don’t,” says Clint, a wicked gleam in his eye. “I see where those hands go every time they’re close enough. I know what you’re into, Rogers.” He motions like he’s grabbing imaginary love handles around his waist, accidentally elbowing Natasha in the face (she’s got her head in his lap, but two seconds later she’s got him in a headlock as he apologizes profusely). 

Steve turns bright red, and Bucky hauls himself upright to kiss him on the cheek. “Laugh all you want,” says Bucky, “but a man who’s gonna finance this appetite is a true hero.”

"He says, into a roomful of true heroes," Clint manages around Natasha’s chokehold.

"Don’t like it, Barton? You can buy dinner."

~ 

"You’re going to wreck your metabolism," Bruce warns gently. He’s gotten clearance from SHIELD to run some tests to study the effects of Bucky’s enhancements, and this requires monthly updates on Bucky’s weight and his vitals. "I can’t check you out like this, you know that. Come back when you’re not stuffed to bursting."

Bucky shrugs, sleepy and full of lunch. “All right, Doc,” he says, and ambles off to see if Steve will take a nap with him.

~

Thor is the only one who’s not impressed.

"This is very much?" he asks, hands spread in disbelief, after watching Bucky decimate a giant order of Chinese.

Bucky groans, easing back against Steve on the couch. “This is very much,” he confirms, undoing the button on his jeans. “You Asgardians are a stronger breed than me.”


	16. nothing says 'i love you' like vaguely burnt desserts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt DOUBLE FEATURE: 8: size differences/comparisons; 12: trying on old/tight clothes (kinky in character); 18: hipster AUfrom [this meme](http://chubmccalls.tumblr.com/post/85302456476/chubby-kink-weight-gain-etc-ask-box-fic-meme)] **/ &/** pre-serum!steve and bucky learning that steve has many food allergies and at first bucky thinks that adjusting his diet is gonna be terrible (and so does steve because won’t he lose weight?) but it turns out bucky actually really, really likes some of these new foods they can eat.
> 
> tl;dr chubby!bucky/steve hipster bakery AU.

Bucky’s favorite smell to wake up to, besides Steve’s shampoo, is the sweet, slightly acrid smell of singed baked goods.

Steve won’t sell anything that’s short of perfection, so a hint of smoke or burning sugar in the air means that there’ll be a batch of slightly overdone tarts or cupcakes or scones - or, if Steve’s feeling particularly ambitious, doughnuts - waiting for him when he goes downstairs. Steve hates being wasteful, and Bucky loves free food, especially when it’s sweet and plentiful and made by Steve.

Bucky worried a lot when Steve first got diagnosed with a gluten allergy and decided to go full-on vegan - Steve’s already allergic to practically everything under the sun, dairy and eggs and wheat and shellfish and god knows what else, and he had visions of Steve wasting away without anything substantial to eat. He’d also worried for himself - he was in it with Steve, that went without question - but he had a hard time imagining a life without New York-style pizza and fast food and beer. 

(“Hey, it’ll be okay,” he’d assured Steve when he’d snuggled up to Bucky’s chest in bed that night, looking glum. “You’re real creative with food. We’ll figure it out.”

Steve had blushed. “I’m not worried about me,” he’d admitted. “I’m used to the hassle by now. I just …” He’d trailed off, fingers gently squeezing the roll of fat around Bucky’s waist, leftover from college. “I don’t want you to lose _this_ , if you start eating better.”

"You’re worried about _me_ losing weight?” Bucky had asked, incredulous. “What about you? You’ll disintegrate if you drop a few pounds. That’s _my_ concern here.”

"Well, we both better make sure we’re eating enough, huh?" said Steve, angling his bony body against Bucky’s soft bulk, and Bucky had lain awake wondering how much gluten-free pasta he’d have to eat to maintain his body mass.) 

But Steve, of course, has risen to the challenge - the bakery is entirely gluten-free as well as vegan, and as the guy who handles the numbers side of it, Bucky can verify that business is better than ever. Steve tells Bucky that his favorite part is seeing the looks on people’s faces when they realize that _vegan_ and _gluten-free_ don’t have to be synonymous with _bland_ and _tasteless_ , and that’s definitely true - Steve loves making other people’s lives a little better, always has. But Bucky’s pretty sure that Steve’s _second_ favorite part is having Bucky test out his desserts: blueberry creme whoopie pies, black bean-apple brownies, chocolate-covered beet fudge, pumpkin doughnuts with cacao icing, plantain cookies, and even tiramisu. 

And the most surprising thing, to Bucky at least, is that everything is as good as it looks, as everyone says it is. He finds himself craving Steve’s raw lemon-fig cheesecake more than he ever craves a double-cheeseburger. He has dreams about mocha chia pudding, can eat an entire pan of kale-zucchini brownies on his own.

The other surprising thing, though, is the effect that this diet has had on his waistline. He’s gained about fifteen pounds in the past couple of months, but the food is so good and Steve is so pleased that he can’t be bothered by it. 

This morning, he detects the smell of figs amidst the waft of smoke, and hauls himself out of bed. Steve’s put the kibosh on Bucky’s showing up to the bakery in his pajamas (“But it’s just _downstairs_ , Steve” / “It’s still a _public place_ , Buck”), so he shucks off his flannel pants and grabs a pair of dark jeans off the stack of laundry he didn’t get around to putting away last night. They’re skinny to begin with, and snug from being freshly washed and dried, and it takes him the better part of five minutes to get them up his thighs and buttoned under the gentle cleft of his belly. His muffin top pooches over the waistband, pale and soft like dough - Steve likes to knead it just as much. He picks out the heather-purple V-neck Steve likes on him from the pile, slips it over his head. It clings around his belly, riding up a little when he rolls his shoulders, and something warm tugs around his pelvis when he thinks of how Steve will react when he sees him like this, just a little too big for his clothes. It gets Steve hot, sure, but it gets him a little hot too, knowing that this is Steve’s doing.

He slopes down to the bakery and pokes his head into the kitchen, where Steve is frosting a batch of cupcakes. Bucky takes a second to watch him work - he’s bundled in a T-shirt and flannel despite the warmth of the kitchen, a knit beanie obscuring his hair except for one blond lock flopping onto his forehead. His glasses, black-framed and thick-lensed, are slipping down his nose a little, and he pauses for a moment to push them back up. His jeans are tight - or they would be if Steve had enough body mass for that - and Steve’s got them cuffed around his Docs because they’re too long, as always. The gluten-free/vegan lifestyle hasn’t added any weight to his frame, but there’s more color in his cheeks than there used to be, and he says he feels better than he used to, more energetic. 

Bucky can hear Peggy and Darcy talking out at the counter, ringing up customers, so he figures it’s safe to sneak in back and press a kiss to Steve’s bony shoulder. “Morning,” he says, and Steve puts down his pastry bag and turns around.

His eyes bug a little when he sees Bucky, as his gaze roves down his body. “Good … morning,” he says, his voice a little choked, and Bucky grins. 

"What’d you burn?" he asks, pulling Steve close to him and fitting one big hand in the back pocket of Steve’s jeans. He kisses the top of his beanie, and Steve turns to press a dirty kiss - teeth and all; Bucky shudders a little - to his collarbone. 

"Raspberry fig bars," he says in Bucky’s neck. "I put them aside for you." One of his hands climbs to the exposed swell of flesh between Bucky’s shirt and his jeans and gives it a squeeze, pokes a finger into the dip where his navel creates a shadow under the fabric. "Do me a favor, though?"

"Yeah?"

"Wait until later to eat them," Steve says. "I wanna see you do it."

It’s not a new idea for them, but it gets Bucky a little hard all the same. “Mmm, yeah,” he says. “Okay,” and Steve gives his belly a final tweak. 

"Perfect," he says. "I’ve gotta finish these, they’re a special order for a wedding, but I’ll see you later. I made doughnuts if you want one for breakfast - ask Peggy, she’ll give you one out front." He gets up on his tiptoes and kisses Bucky properly - he still tastes like his morning coffee, and Bucky marvels at his willpower when it comes to resisting the urge to sample his own food. 

He lets Steve get back to the cupcakes, wheedles a latte out of Darcy and two doughnuts out of Peggy, and spends the day at the corner table crunching numbers for Natasha’s private detective service. 

Later, once the bakery is closed and the kitchen’s been cleaned, Steve meets him upstairs, covered tray of raspberry fig bars in hand. He joins Bucky on the couch and uncovers the tray, then straddles Bucky’s thighs, kisses him hard, one hand sinking into the dough of Bucky’s belly.

"Even a little burned," he says softly, when they pull away after a few minutes, "they’ll be worth the wait, I promise."

He takes one bar from the tray, cupping a hand underneath to catch stray crumbs, and brings it to Bucky’s mouth.

Bucky chews, swallows, lets out a little appreciative groan. “That’s amazing, Stevie, _God_.”

"Yeah?" says Steve, kneading at Bucky’s stomach like a cat. "You want another one?"

"Yeah."

He lets Steve feed him the entire tray, pausing every few bites to make out, or to groan, or to let Steve jostle his belly around and rub little circles onto it. When there are only crumbs left, he slumps down a little on the couch, spreads his legs a little wider to give his stomach room to bloat, and burps softly.

"Oh, man, Steve," he says quietly. "You gotta make those more often."

Steve shifts so that he’s lying with his head on Bucky’s thighs, and pushes up the hem of the purple V-neck to kiss all over his swollen belly. “Definitely,” he murmurs against Bucky’s skin. “Remember when you thought you were gonna hate this diet?”

Bucky grins, eyes heavy-lidded, belches again, gently. “I take it back. I take it all back.” He laughs a little, taking Steve’s beanie off so he can run his fingers through his hair. “Remember when you were afraid I’d get skinny?”

Steve laughs too, shakes his head. “I had nothing to worry about,” he says, turning to kiss Bucky’s belly again, turning it into a little nip at the last minute. Bucky shudders, gives a little moan of approval. “Nothing at all.”


	17. i, too, give thanks for the freshman fifteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt DOUBLE FEATURE: 4: someone gaining the freshman fifteen (or more) **/ &/** 1: oblivious weight gain; 2: unintentional weight gain; and 13: trying on old/tight clothes (not kinky in character).

Steve wakes up the Monday after Thanksgiving to see his roommate sitting up in bed, T-shirt rucked up to his chest, palming the small mound of his belly.

"What’re you doing, Buck?" Steve asks sleepily, squinting to make sure he’s seeing this right. 

"Look at this," says Bucky, grinning over at him. He jiggles the soft flesh around his waist, and Steve swallows hard. "I _just_ noticed this when I was at home for Thanksgiving. I was popping out of all my dress clothes.” He laughs, jostling his belly again. “There’s so much of it, Steve, Jesus. I don’t know how I didn’t notice.”

Steve, of course, has noticed. He’s sat in the dining hall and watched Bucky go back for seconds, thirds, sometimes fourths. He’s watched Bucky tipsily demolish entire pizzas on his own, watched him chug enough beers to make Steve nauseated just thinking about it. And, most difficult of all, he’s watched Bucky massage his belly after all that food, letting out appreciative belches and groaning about how stuffed he is, how he’s too full to move. He’s been quietly watching the weight pile on, just a softness around Bucky’s chin at first, then a thicker layer on his belly, bulging over the waistband of his jeans and straining the buttons on his shirts. His arms are a little bigger, still muscular from his high school football years but softened a little, and his ass and thighs are plumper, filling out his pants and making Steve bite down on his lower lip whenever he looks for too long. 

"Yeah," he says, propping himself up on one elbow and determinedly keeping his eyes on Bucky’s face. "I guess you’ve gotten kinda chunky."

“ _Kinda_ ,” Bucky repeats, still grinning. He grabs a handful of his stomach and rolls it between his fingers, gives it a squeeze. Steve closes his eyes, feeling his dick twitch under the blankets. He still hasn’t figured out exactly _why_ it turns him on to see Bucky all soft and bloated, but he’s given up fighting it. It’s hard enough fighting the urge to act on his attractions when Bucky dozes on his shoulder during a movie, or goes out of his way to make plans to hang out with him, or ditches his jock friends to tell Steve about something that happened to him that day, or that one time he drunkenly crawled into Steve’s bed late after a party and spooned himself against Steve’s slender body. Steve had fought to keep his breathing slow and even - he’d almost been asleep when he heard Bucky come in - and they haven’t talked about it to this day.

"You should’ve seen my parents’ faces when they saw me," Bucky goes on now, and Steve squirms under the blankets. "I thought they were going to have a heart attack. Their eyes got so wide. My mom was like, ‘I guess your meal plan’s working out,’ and my dad was like, ‘I guess your gym plan’s _not_ working out,’ but that was all they said. My relatives were kinda shitty about it - they kept asking if I was _sure_ I wanted seconds, and they kept giving me these awful sideways looks when I kept eating, and I was just like, ‘Come on, it’s Thanksgiving, this is what you’re _supposed_ to do.’” His eyes light up, and he slides off his bed to rummage through his suitcase, which is lying, half-unpacked, on the floor between their beds. 

"I brought back a pair of the dress pants to show you," he says, pulling out a pair of khaki slacks. "You gotta see how small they are, it’s wild."

Steve feels like all of his organs have turned into lava. 

"I bet," he manages, pulling his blankets tighter.

Bucky turns to give him a mischievous grin and begins to wriggle into the slacks. The pudge around his hips and waist wobbles as he negotiates the pants over his knees, up his chunky thighs, where they get stuck. He tugs a little more, manages to get the pants up around his waist, grunts a little. Steve swallows back a strangled little noise.

Bucky tucks the hem of his T-shirt under his chin - and Steve has to refocus his eyes, because that just exacerbates the double chin that’s already there - in what Steve assumes is an attempt to better see his waistband, but his belly’s a little too big for that to be possible, especially with the too-snug pants squeezing out even more muffin top than usual. Bucky pulls both sides of the fly together, groping under the curve of his belly for the buttonhole, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His gut bounces as he struggles, and Steve closes his eyes. 

"Got it!" Bucky proclaims triumphantly after another minute or so. He keeps his T-shirt pulled up to his chest, presumably so Steve can get the full effect: his love handles spill over the sides of his waistband, belly rounding out in front. His thighs and ass look like they might burst the seams of the slacks at the smallest movement, the fabric straining around his hips. Steve thinks he can see a tiny shadow of the cellulite on Bucky’s thighs _through_ the khakis, and damn, if he wasn’t dizzyingly hard already, he is now.

"What do you think, Steve?" Bucky asks, grinning proudly. "Probably more than fifteen, right?"

"Definitely," Steve manages hoarsely. "How did you wear those all day?"

He imagines Bucky moving gingerly, trying not to split his pants, pop a button. He imagines Bucky, too full to move, straining the seams of his pants, massaging his bloated belly under the table, and for a second he can’t breathe.

"Didn’t," says Bucky, struggling to undo the button. "Had to wear a pair of nice jeans instead. There was no way these were gonna make it through the meal, the way I eat."

Steve makes a little noise of agreement, watching Bucky’s midsection as he extracts himself from the slacks.

"I’m gonna try to pop ‘em this weekend," he says once he’s gotten out of them, tossing them back into his suitcase. "Get a couple pizzas or a bunch of Chinese and just go at it."

Steve can’t decide if that’s something he very much wants to be there for, or something he should _absolutely not_ be there for. He watches Bucky switch out his glasses for his contacts in the mirror, and admires the way his legs look in his boxers - he’s strangely endeared to Bucky’s chubby knees, to the way his calves are still muscular from his days as a serious jock. He likes the contrast of soft and hard that composes his body.

"You hungry, Steve?" Bucky asks from the mirror, giving his belly one grope. "I’m gonna go get breakfast, you should come."

"Yeah, sure," says Steve. "Just, uh … give me a couple minutes."


	18. taking it easy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: I was watching the Covenant last night and would love a boarding school type AU, with Bucky's uniform not fitting quite right anymore (much to Steve's delight)

On Halloween night, drunk on cheap beer and an obscene amount of candy, Bucky tells Steve that he intends to take it easy this year.

"I deserve a break, you know?" he slurs, shifting against Steve on his bed. His belly - already soft after a summer of too much ice cream and too little swimming - is swollen with overindulgence, bloated from the beer Clint and Tony smuggled into Natasha and Pepper’s room for their little impromptu Halloween party and the fun-size candy bars Steve’s been feeding him all night. "Enough stress this year with college and AP exams, might as well enjoy myself the rest of the time."

Steve peels the wrapper from another Milky Way and holds it to Bucky’s lips. He wants to draw him like this, belly round and pushing toward the ceiling, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth turned up at the corners.

"Yeah, of course," he agrees. You definitely deserve it."

Bucky hiccups, accepts the candy. “‘M gonna take it so easy,” he says through a mouthful of chocolate. He swallows and motions to Steve for more, and although this is the second bag of candy he’s opened for Bucky tonight, this is obviously exactly what Bucky wants, so he doesn’t feel too bad when he feeds him the rest of it.

—-

By the beginning of swim season, Bucky’s grown considerably wider - the phrase that springs to Steve’s mind is _pear-shaped_. His hips are soft now, his thighs and middle padded with a layer of overindulgence. His face is fuller, and a little double chin has gathered beneath his jawline. He’s testing the limits of his school uniform, has been for the last ten pounds or so - his belly strains against the buttons of his white Oxford shirt, muffin top spilling over the waistband of his navy slacks, which have grown equally snug. They wrinkle around his crotch, pull tight around his pudgy ass, and Steve’s honestly pretty surprised that he hasn’t busted a seam yet. His blazer won’t button anymore, and it’s taking more and more effort for him to get into his pants each morning. Steve likes to lie in bed and watch after spending the night in Bucky’s room, likes the show of jiggling and bouncing it involves. 

Steve loves the way the uniform looks like this, all snug and straining. It’s clear that its buttons aren’t long for this world, not with the way Bucky’s been eating - seconds and thirds at the dining hall, doughnuts and extra cream in his coffee at breakfast. He gets off on the tight uniform almost as much as he does looking at Bucky wearing nothing at all, the way he’s got to pull both halves of the fly of his pants closer together before he can unbutton it, the way Bucky’s sides fill out his shirt over his beltline, the way he can see his ass wobble just a little through the fabric of his slacks.

They’re in Bucky’s bed again tonight - Clint is out with Natasha, so it’s just the two of them - and although they’ve got one of Clint’s _Indiana Jones_ movies on in the background, Steve’s trying to get at least one of those uniform buttons popped by the end of the night. He and Bucky took the shuttle into town for dinner, and Bucky’s sleepy beside him, full of cheap double cheeseburgers and fries, letting Steve feed him the pint of ice cream they snagged at 7-Eleven. His belly is swollen and hard beneath the pudge, and Steve smooths a hand over it between bites, rubbing out the aches and cramps. Bucky groans softly, burps as Steve rubs the underside of his stomach. 

"First swim practice tomorrow," he says lazily, pulling Steve down for a kiss. "Think I’ll still fit in my Speedo?"

Steve’s dick jumps a little. “We might have to check that out later.”

Bucky groans again, palming his stomach. “Too full. Tomorrow.”

"Okay," Steve concedes after a moment, disappointment fading quickly. It’ll be something nice to look forward to when he wakes up. He digs out another bite of ice cream. "Think you can finish this?"

Bucky nods, jawline doubling. “Yeah.”

The buttons on his shirt are pulled almost to bursting by now, so much so that Steve can see Bucky’s skin peeking out between them. He nudges the spoon into Bucky’s mouth, then loads it again, until the carton is empty. Bucky’s breathing is shallow and careful, and Steve cuddles in next to him, rubbing the underside of his stomach. Bucky grunts, shifting a little, and dislodges a heavy belch, which is echoed by a thin clatter against the hardwood floor.

Steve scoots down to inspect the damage, and sure enough, there’s a gap in Bucky’s shirt over the biggest part of his belly. Steve gasps a little, catching his breath. He presses a kiss to the exposed skin, then undoes the rest of the buttons - the button of Bucky’s pants was undone almost as soon as he finished dinner - and kisses all over his belly, licking where it’s bloated and nipping at the swells of chub squeezed out of his waistband. Bucky moans, and Steve pauses.

"You okay?"

Bucky nods. “Just go easy,” he says. “Hurts a little.”

"Aw," says Steve, "sorry, Buck. You should’ve said."

"Nah," Bucky says, waving it off. "S’fine." He pulls Steve back up, giving him a long, soft kiss. "Maybe just rub for now, though."

"You got it," says Steve, gently tweaking at Bucky’s hip. "And hey, I’m gonna hold you to trying on that Speedo in the morning."

"That’s if I can _move_ by then,” Bucky grumbles, settling one arm around Steve and the other on his belly, massaging it. “And if I can’t, that’s your own fault.”


	19. can't have you starving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Could you write something with chubby!Bucky in which Bucky attempts to go on a diet but while on said diet his stomach starts growling loudly while sitting with Steve
> 
> (((fat camp au ahoy~~~ i think this is maybe a week or so after they’ve first kissed/acknowledged feelings???)))

Bucky’s lunch is an apple, some celery sticks, and half a tuna sandwich (lite mayo).

He tries to eat it slowly, to see if he can trick himself into feeling full, but he’s still wishing for a little something more once he’s done. Something a little more substantial, a little more carby.

He knows it takes a lot to fill him up - his appetite’s been huge since he hit puberty - and he broods about having to spend another afternoon starving as he shuffles out of the mess hall and towards the pool, before it occurs to him that he’s missing the point. He’s supposed to be losing weight here, not sating his massive appetite.

Steve grins and waves at him from the lifeguard chair, then tilts his head toward Director Fury, who’s standing by the pool fence, making sure everyone’s swimming and nobody’s slacking. Bucky waves, nods, lowers himself into one of the lanes of the pool and begins swimming laps.

He’s done seven, maybe eight laps when he comes up for air and sees Steve sitting at the end of his lane. He swims to the end and splashes him as he surfaces, only panting a little. 

"Fury gone?" he asks, cupping his hands together and squirting water at Steve.

Steve dodges, splashes him back. “Yeah. Someone started yelling over at archery and he went to make sure Clint didn’t need supervision.”

"Thank God," says Bucky, hoisting himself out of the water. "I hate when he hovers like that. I feel like he’s gonna swim up to me and yell at me for not working hard enough."

Steve laughs. “Me too. Whenever I’m teaching the cardio sessions and I let someone stop to catch their breath, I’m afraid he’s gonna find out somehow and get in my face about it.”

Bucky starts to respond, but as he’s forming the words, his stomach lets out a mighty growl - not the stuffed, overfull noises he’s used to hearing it make, but a hollow, gnawing, hungry sound. He swallows, crossing his arms over his belly, and Steve frowns. 

"Didn’t you come from lunch?"

Bucky flushes. He _shouldn’t_ be hungry so soon after lunch - it’s enough food for everyone else, apparently. He has no right to be embarrassed - it’s his own fault that he’s stretched his stomach out so much with beer and shitty late-night pizza and unlimited helpings in the dining hall that a normally portioned meal won’t fill him up.

"Yeah," he says quietly, kicking his legs through the water. He can feel his face getting hot, all the way down his neck and shoulders, and he idly wonders if it’s embarrassment or sunburn. "But the portions they give us - it’s not really enough for, you know … all this." He squeezes a handful of his belly. 

"What do they give you?" Steve asks, and it occurs to Bucky that counselors probably don’t get the same rations that campers do. 

"Half a tuna sandwich. Some celery sticks. An apple," he says, and Steve’s frown deepens.

"That’s not enough," he says.

"Breakfast and dinner are usually more," says Bucky. His stomach growls again, and he pulls his arms tighter. "It’s just getting from lunch to dinner that’s hard."

"Eating less is one thing," Steve says, concern crimping his mouth. "But you shouldn’t be _starving_ , Buck.”

A pleasant chill rushes over Bucky when he hears the nickname. “I can’t just ask for more,” he objects, and Steve shrugs in agreement. “Like, ‘hey, I’m not really about all this weight-loss stuff, wanna give me more food instead?’”

Steve doesn’t answer for a moment, and Bucky bites down on his lower lip. He plays Steve’s voice calling him _Buck_ over a few times in his head, and then Steve says hesitantly, “You should come to my room tomorrow. Instead of going to lunch. They don’t make you check in or anything, do they?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nah.” He rubs a hand over his reddening shoulders. “And if anyone asks, I’ll just say I’m going to the wellness center to get aloe or something.”

Steve nods. Bucky thinks he looks a little excited, but maybe he’s just projecting his own excitement onto Steve. Having lunch with Steve in Steve’s room, just the two of them - it fills Bucky’s almost-empty stomach with a liquid warmth.

So the next day, instead of heading to the mess hall, he falls out of line to detour toward the wellness center, and takes a left instead of a right to end up at Steve’s cabin. He knocks lightly, and a second later Steve cracks the door open.

"Oh, good," he says, opening it wider. "I started thinking about what would happen if Fury showed up instead and I started panicking."

"Nope," says Bucky. "Just me." He follows Steve into the cabin, and Steve grins when Bucky’s eyes light on the pizza box on Steve’s bed.

"You," says Bucky, "are the literal worst at your job."

"Hey," says Steve, closing the door and holding up his hands."Gotta keep things interesting, you know? And I can’t have you starving." He steps closer to Bucky, makes a shy grab for his hand. "But if it’s too much rule-breaking for you, we don’t have to …"

"No, no," says Bucky, turning Steve’s hand over in his own. "I’m. I am very okay with this.”

"Good," Steve says softly. He leans down a little to press his lips to Bucky’s, and they kiss for a moment, tongues poking into each other’s mouths, before Bucky reluctantly murmurs, "We only get half an hour for lunch, Steve."

"Oh, right!" says Steve. He’s blushing when they pull away, but he holds onto Bucky’s hand, tugging him toward the bed. "Come on, then."

They split the pizza, and when they’re done, Bucky’s fuller than he can remember being since he got here, and Steve is looking at him hungrily.

"Little hot?" Bucky teases, and Steve swallows.

"I like watching you eat," he says. "It’s nice seeing you all … you know, all _full_.”

"Maybe we should do this more often," says Bucky, arching an eyebrow. He swipes his tongue across his lips to catch any remaining pizza grease, and watches Steve’s eyes widen.

"Yeah," Steve manages, and Bucky grins. "I think we should."


	20. in honor of doughnut day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: Bucky stuffing himself with doughnuts for this lovely holiday?

Kathy, one of the cashiers at the Dunkin Donuts down their block, has a huge crush on Steve. She slips him free doughnuts and muffins with his coffee at least once a week, and although Steve isn’t much for sweets so early in the morning, Bucky’s been enjoying Kathy’s kindness, munching on the pastries while Steve eats his cornflakes across the kitchen table.

The first Friday in June, Steve shows up with their morning coffees and a dozen doughnuts, looking a little confused, and Bucky grins like it’s Christmas morning. 

"Thank God for Kathy," he says as Steve sets the box on the counter. "What’s the occasion?"

Steve shrugs. “Dunkin does this thing called Doughnut Day, and you get a free doughnut with your drink or something. Only I guess Kathy decided that since she does that for me, like, twice a week, she had to make it more special somehow.”

"Hey, no complaints," says Bucky, plucking a Boston cream from the box. "You don’t want these, I can take care of ‘em, easy."

He watches Steve swallow hard, scald his mouth on a sip of coffee. “Okay,” he says, and Bucky can tell that he’s measured out the word, trying to keep it even. “Go for it.”

He settles into the kitchen chair next to Bucky’s as Bucky takes a bite of the Boston cream, letting some of the custard in the middle drip onto his chin so he can tease Steve licking it off. He slurps out the rest of the filling noisily, watching Steve’s cheeks turn pink as the strawberry frosting of the next doughnut.

They’ve played this game enough times - with pizza, sushi, pints of ice cream, boxes of Chinese food - that Bucky knows all the tricks to make Steve come undone. He makes lots of appreciative sounds around the next three doughnuts, little _mmms_ and _mmphs_ and _ohhs_ , soft moans and sighs that he knows’ll have Steve squirming in his seat. He takes a swig of coffee after the last bite of the fourth one slides down his throat and lets out a belch, and Steve makes a little noise across the table.

"How’s the weather out there, Stevie?" Bucky asks around a mouthful of cinnamon sugar. He brings a hand to his belly, massages it where it rounds out over his beltline. "Gettin’ hot yet?"

"Not just the weather," Steve manages. There’s a smear of frosting at the corner of Bucky’s mouth, a couple crumbs clinging to his lips, and it’s all Steve can do not to lunge across the kitchen table and clean Bucky’s mouth with his own. He watches the muscles in Bucky’s jaw work as he chews, and crosses his legs.

Bucky finishes off the cinnamon doughnut in a couple more bites, then reaches for a powdered sugar. “Think I can do this in one bite?” he asks, and Steve nods.

"I think you should try," he says, and Bucky shrugs, nods, fits his mouth around the pastry. His cheeks pooch out like a chipmunk’s, and Steve laughs. Bucky chews indignantly, eyes narrowed into a playful glare. 

"Okay, punk," he says once he’s swallowed. "How about I eat some of these off you?"

Steve feels himself flush. “What, uh, what did you have in mind?”

Bucky glances at the box of doughnuts, then back to Steve, then looks pointedly at Steve’s crossed legs. “Doughnuts have holes,” he says.

Steve swallows hard. “That’s … that’s kinky,” he manages hoarsely, after a moment. “I like it.”

Bucky nods. “Cool,” he says, picking up the box of doughnuts. “Get on the couch, then.”

Once Steve’s settled, propped up against a couple pillows, Bucky straddles his legs, unbuttons Steve’s jeans and works the pants and boxers down over his ass. Steve’s painfully hard already, and Bucky grins as he pushes a glazed doughnut over the tip of Steve’s dick. Steve squirms, makes a little noise in the back of his throat, and Bucky’s own dick twitches. He hunkers down between Steve’s thighs, belly brushing against the fabric of the couch, and takes him into his mouth, licking all the way down until he reaches the doughnut.

"Just be careful with your teeth," Steve mutters, and Bucky laughs, kisses the inside of Steve’s thigh. 

"I’ll be careful," he says, taking the first nibble of pastry. Steve moans a little as Bucky’s lips brush the base of his dick, and Bucky takes another cautious bite.

"Good?" he asks, and Steve whimpers in agreement. 

Bucky nibbles off the rest of the doughnut slowly, pausing between bites to lick up and down Steve’s dick, skin sweet with doughnut glaze, and Steve’s moans get louder and louder. Bucky works his tongue around the head like he knows Steve likes, giving a few little groans and _mmms_ of his own, and Steve comes with a hard grunt and a gasp. Bucky swallows, uses his tongue to take care of the crumbs and flakes of glaze around Steve’s pelvis, and then cuddles up next to him. 

"That," says Steve, his breathing ragged, "was _something_.”

"Good something?" asks Bucky, kissing his forehead.

Steve nods. “Definitely.” He grins slyly and rubs a hand across Bucky’s belly, a little swollen with the seven doughnuts he’s put away. “You still got any room in there?”

"Of course."

"Good, because I want to feed you the rest," says Steve, reaching for the box. He picks a chocolate frosted, brushes it against Bucky’s lips. Bucky takes a bite, and as he’s chewing, Steve moves down and nips at his collarbone, at the spot where his neck meets his shoulders, and Bucky lets out a groan through the mouthful of food. He closes his teeth gently around Steve’s fingers on the next bite, sucking the frosting off the tips, and Steve responds by giving the pudge around Bucky’s waist an affectionate tweak. 

He feeds Bucky the remaining doughnuts and kisses stray the crumbs and frosting from his lips. Bucky burps and settles back on the couch, and Steve nestles next to him, a hand rubbing gentle his belly.

"Full?" he asks. Bucky burps again, nods.

"Think you can get Kathy to do this more often?" he asks, and Steve grins.

"I’m sure as hell gonna try."


	21. the way to a recovering assassin's heart is through his stomach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> prompt: I'd love to see some more Steve/Bucky! <3 maybe whereing food becomes like a 'bad' thing temporarily, because Bucky nearly chokes on it or gets food poisoning, and he's cautious about eating, which is driving Steve crazy and worried <3

Steve is sure it’s been over half a century since Bucky had a conversation with anyone, but it doesn’t make his silence any less frustrating. He knows what it’s like to wake up in an unfamiliar world, but he had the good fortune to wake up with his wits about him, with his identity firmly in place. He knows that Bucky’s been brainwashed and tortured and placed under an obscene amount of physical and emotional stress, but he remembers a time when he was hard-pressed to get Bucky to shut up, and that makes the silence all the harder to accept.

It’s strange, ghostly, to see him moving through Steve’s apartment. Sometimes, at the right angle, in the right moment, Steve can imagine that nothing has changed, until Bucky turns, and his left arm catches the light and his hollow eyes find Steve for a split second before darting away, and Steve’s heart goes dark again.

In the end, Bucky didn’t make it far before Steve caught up with him. The Smithsonian security force noticed him loitering at the Museum of American History for about a week, then found him huddled, unconscious, in one of the dark corners of the World War II exhibit. Turns out nobody in the Winter Soldier program thought to teach the Winter Soldier how to keep himself alive without a weapon in his hands.

S.H.I.E.L.D. wanted to lock him up once he was discharged from the hospital – having been dehydrated, starving, and exhausted when the Smithsonian guards found him – and Steve understands that, really he does. But he watched Bucky come to in the hospital, watched him look around blankly, watched his eyes fill with fear, watched his gaze land on his face, just a second long enough to ignite a spark of hope. No one made an effort to ease him back into the present, as they had with Steve, and although there’s no proof yet, Steve believes that Bucky’s transition will be easier with someone familiar by his side. And if he’s wrong – well, Fury made sure the apartment is well-stocked with sedatives. The three of them – Steve, Natasha, and Sam – are armed with tranquilizer darts as well, because the condition on which Steve could take custody of Bucky, of course, is that he’s got two military presences with him at all times.

But keeping Bucky from embarking on any homicidal rampages isn’t the hard part, and so Sam and Natasha turn out to function more as housemates than anything else. Bucky won’t speak around either of them, no matter how much Natasha asks him in Russian, and although Sam’s trying to make a good impression, Bucky isn’t taking to it – hasn’t since Sam tried to cook him breakfast on his first day out of the hospital and they discovered that Bucky can’t stomach much in the way of solid food. “The cryo,” said Natasha knowingly, and neither of them questioned her authority – who knows what she’s seen in her KGB years. “His body doesn’t know how to function outside of it for this long.”

Sam shrugged. “His loss,” he said. “I make the best damn breakfast in D.C. He’ll warm up eventually.”

 _Eventually_ is a slow process; Bucky can’t keep much of anything down in the first few weeks that he’s home. Steve tries to spoon-feed him weak broth, thin oatmeal, white rice, but Bucky is adamant about rejecting the food. He tucks himself into corners, turns his face away like a petulant child when Steve offers him something. He’s looking gaunter by the day, and Steve’s own stomach roils with worry. He’s afraid to force anything - he’s not sure how much programming is left in Bucky’s brain, or if he’ll be receptive to Steve sitting him down and explaining that he needs to eat to stay alive. 

He leaves bowls of broth outside Bucky’s bedroom door, on the coffee table when Bucky’s napping on the couch, thinking maybe he’d prefer to feed himself, but nothing is touched. Steve can see his ribs through his t-shirts, and more and more frequently when he tries to stand, he sways instead, having to steady himself against the nearest piece of furniture. Sam suggests, gently, that maybe it’s time to check him into a psychiatric ward, get some feeding tubes in him, but Steve pleads with him, _just a few more days_.

He tries to reason with him once, sitting on the other side of the coffee table with a bowl of cream of wheat between them. He tries to explain - softly, soothingly - that he’s worried, that Bucky doesn’t have to starve himself, that there’s plenty of food for him here, that he’s safe and no one is going to hurt him or take it away from him. He pushes more than he’s ever pushed before, but when he nudges the bowl closer to Bucky, it’s like something has snapped. 

“ _No_!” he says, metal arm sweeping the bowl off the table. “Stay away from me - get _away_!”

It’s followed by an angry stream of Russian, and Steve’s left too crushed to appreciate the resurgence of Bucky’s English.

He leaves out a bowl of rice that night anyway, and wakes up to the sound of shattering ceramic in the middle of the night. He gets up to check, imagining Bucky’s human hand cut up with shards, but finds him intact, curled in one of the kitchen chairs, chin resting on his knees, rice carpeting the floor around him. He spits curse words, English and Russian, when Steve tries to get close enough to clean it up.

"Don’t touch me," he hisses, and although Steve goes back to bed, he doesn’t sleep.

It’s Natasha who finally hits on it, watching Steve make another bowl of oatmeal one day. Bucky’s curled into a corner of the couch, eyelids heavy, his face pallid and sunken. 

"Is that what you’ve been giving him?" she asks suddenly, pulling the bowl toward her.

Steve nods. “Yeah. Oatmeal, cream of wheat, rice, chicken broth. Things that won’t upset his stomach if he decides to eat them.”

She wafts some of the steam toward her face, then shudders as the smell hits her. “You can’t give him this.”

"What’s wrong with it?" Steve asks. It’s instant oatmeal, sure, and it’s not as good as what his mom used to make in the 30s, but there’s nothing wrong with it. 

She glances at Bucky, dozing on the couch, and lowers her voice. “The Russians probably gave him something like this,” she says. “Some sort of porridge thing with grains and vitamins and supplements. Turns your stomach, but when it’s all you get …” She wrinkles her nose and pushes the bowl away from her; Steve guesses that she’s probably more familiar with this stuff than she’d ever admit. “Even rice might be too close for him to differentiate. Try something a little more solid. It’s been a while; his system should be adjusted by now.”

Steve thanks her, and that night he and Sam get to work on dinner: oven-fried chicken, cheddar mashed potatoes, and string beans, with an apple pie for dessert. Bucky lurks in the doorway as they cook, metal hand clutching the doorframe for support, and when he limps back to the couch, Steve notices five finger-shaped dents in the wood.

He sets a place at the table, just in case, and approaches Bucky with his hands up, open.

"Would you like to eat with us?" he asks, and Bucky gives him the same piercing, hollow stare he’s worn since he came home. 

"There’s chicken," Steve entices. "Potatoes. String beans. Apple pie."

Bucky blinks, but his expression remains the same.

"I’m going to leave a plate out for you," says Steve. "You can have some if you’d like."

Bucky stares on. 

Steve makes up a plate with plenty of food - enough to fill him up, not enough to make him sick - and leaves it on the stovetop, then joins Sam and Natasha at the table in the dining room. 

After ten minutes or so, he hears movement in the kitchen, and resists the urge to check on Bucky. He tries to pay attention to what Sam and Nat are talking about, but his mind is occupied trying to remember how long the human body can function without food.

He makes himself wait until his own plate is empty to go back into the kitchen, and his heart jumps when he sees that Bucky’s place is neither on the stovetop nor in pieces on the floor. He peers into the living room, and a flood of relief washes over him when he sees Bucky on the couch, plate on the coffee table, scraped clean.

"Thank God," he breathes. "How’re you feeling, Buck?"

Bucky burps in response. He’s lying back on the couch, human hand on his belly, and only when Steve looks closer does he see that Bucky’s usually concave stomach is distended, pushing out in a hard mass under his t-shirt. 

Steve approaches him cautiously, and when Bucky doesn’t lash out or snap at him, he sits gingerly on the edge of the couch.

"Feel okay?" he asks again, and Bucky side-eyes him, then nods. 

"You don’t feel sick?"

Bucky shakes his head. “Just full,” he says quietly, and Steve can’t help but grin, because Bucky’s eating and speaking English, and he’s not hissing at Steve to keep his distance.

"Need anything?" Steve asks. "A glass of water?"

Bucky belches again, massaging his stomach. “Maybe.”

"Okay," says Steve, still grinning. Bucky scowls up at him, but there’s not as much hostility behind it as there usually is. It looks more like a scowl the old Bucky might have worn, when Steve laughed at some petty misfortune of his - like the time he was trying to impress the sailors’ girlfriends down at the docks on a hot summer day, and had been so busy sauntering around and flirting that he’d lost his footing and fallen into the water. It reignites the little flame of hope in Steve’s chest that maybe the old Bucky isn’t completely gone.

He gets Bucky a glass of water and sets it on the coffee table. “And if you get hungry later,” he says, “there’s pie in the kitchen.”

Bucky shifts a little, grunting at the movement. “Maybe,” he says again, faintly. “Or maybe tomorrow.”

Steve can’t stop smiling.


End file.
